A Can of Worms
by illhousen
Summary: Oneshots for Worm, mostly crossovers.
1. Golden Butterflies

_Italics_ = blue text

**Bold** = red text

_**Bolded italics**_ = gold text

* * *

**Golden Butterflies**

(Umineko no Naku Koro ni crossover)

"You should be grateful, you know. I granted you your heart's desire, after all."

I glared at the woman. The gesture was not as impressive as I wished given that I was crouched on a toiled seat while she was looming over me.

The bathroom stall was not the most comfortable place to hide, but it was hard to find some privacy, however fleeting, in an Endbringer shelter, especially after the murders.. I desperately wished to be back in my room. It wouldn't help me to avoid this conversation, but at least it would be a home territory. But with the damage done by Leviathan to the city all exits were effectively blocked. It would take at least another couple of hours before we could finally leave this place.

"This isn't what I wanted," I said, mentally berating myself for answering to the provocation.

"Oh?" She smirked. I hated her smirk. She looked almost exactly like me - no, exactly like I wanted to be, down to the frilly dress I'd never had a courage to wear - except for her expressions. I certainly didn't want to look so cruel. "And yet you kept journals detailing all kinds of things that were done to you. Why do it if not to remind yourself of your hatred? And why do that if you don't plan to act on it?"

I glared at her again. The second glare felt even less impressive than the first.

"You are not even real," I said, burying my head between the knees. "Leave me alone."

"Still denying me? Yet **Emma was killed where she slept, with no one noticing**. You should've seen the look on her face as she slowly realized just what was going on... Surely you must admit that I am the obvious culprit."

"_The potential witnesses could've been asleep_," I rebuked, the argument feeble even to my ears.

"**Several people in a position to witness Emma's death were awake and aware**." I hated the red text. And I hated myself for agreeing to play her game. I could deny the truth of red, yes, but that would just send us back to square one, to endless debates that simply don't lead anywhere and never end. At least now there was a sense of progress. At least now I had a weapon giving me a semblance of confidence.

"_A new cape, then. One with the power to kill unnoticed. It is not unheard of for new capes to emerge right after an Endbringer attack. And this place is stressful enough that it is not hard to believe that someone who just gained superpowers would snap_."

"**Emma's parents and sister were killed too**. A cape targeting a single family?" She laughed gleefully, without restrain. I almost envied her the ability to laugh like that. "I made sure to let Emma know exactly whom to blame."

"_It could happen_," I said, refusing the bait. "_He or she could even think of it as a mercy: to take down the whole family rather than let them be divided_."

"Is that how you feel about your mother?" she asked in a mockingly-concerned voice. "Do you wish Danny was... more merciful?"

"Fuck you."

She laughed for a long time.

"And what about the pattern?" she asked, turning serious once again. Or what passed as serious with her always-present smirk. "Isn't it clear that Emma's death is but the next in the chain after Madison and Sophia?"

"_The murders are not necessary related_."

She smirked again, and I felt the trap closing.

"Do you believe it in your heart?"

Not a red text or a blue or any other color. Just words, yet they managed to destroy my argument completely. I didn't truly believe it, no. The pattern was too clear in my mind. And so I could not honestly argue it, even though it was not an official rule of our game. It felt wrong. I did not know if there would be any kind of consequences for breaking this unspoken rule, yet I was afraid to take the risk.

I changed the approach instead.

"_It could be someone with a grudge against Sophia_. She was a brutal vigilante not afraid to use lethal force. _It is plausible that she'd made many enemies. After her outing, the revenge was a strong possibility_." I winced at the memory. That was a messy affair. Sophia was revealed to be Shadow Stalker on live television. Even though she went into Protectorate's protection program, she was found dead a few months later in a room closed from the inside. The PRT even questioned me, clearly desperate for a suspect. I had an iron-clad alibi for both her outing and murder, however. "_Targeting her friends fits the pattern as well_."

"**Madison was killed before Sophia was outed**," came the reply. "How would the culprit know to target her?"

"_The culprit could be the one behind the outing. First he or she murdered Madison, then outed Sophia, then either murdered her or let her other enemies do the job_." If there was any benefit for me from this game, it would be the improvement of my rhetoric.

"**But Emma was killed after Sophia**," she rebutted smoothly. It was probably her plan all along. "What's the point in taking revenge on a corpse?"

I was silent.

"Just admit it: I am the only one with the motive, capability and knowledge necessary to carry out those murders."

It wasn't true.

"There..."

It was her game from the beginning.

"_There is another plausible culprit_."

It was the power she claimed as the Witch of Escalation: no matter how strong or cunning or vicious the opponent was, she always had a counter that would hurt them more than they could hurt her. Any triumph against her or those blessed by her could be turned into a Pyhrric victory.

"_There is a person with a grudge against Emma. The one who had reasons to take everything from her. The one who could, through an accident, learn about Sophia's secret identity_. Giving the circumstances of that person's life, _it is plausible that a trigger would occur eventually. It is not impossible that the powers would allow to carry out the murders undiscovered by anyone_."

In the end, it was the only choice left to me. All others paths were illusions.

I could acknowledge her existence and become her furniture, an extension of her will...

Or I could become her. A witch. A murderer.

"_**I did it**_."

With the final proclamation, I was left alone in the bathroom stall. The woman was still there, but there was no life in her eyes. She was but a painting in the air, perfect and still.

Did I steal that life? Did I kill her? Or was she always just an expression of my power, a projection acting on my darkest desires?

It was pointless to wonder. The box was sealed now. All that remained was the truth I crafted for myself.

I sighed, and as I let out the breath, the woman dissolved into thousands golden butterflies.


	2. Foreign Obsessions Imitating Life

**.**

**Foreign Obsessions Imitating Life**

(Decoration Disorder Disconnection crossover)

Where did my life went wrong? Was it the death of my mother? No, I don't think so. The tragedy impacted me and my father greatly, but it was something we could recover from, something we did start putting behind us. Even though sometimes I blamed myself for her death, since she died in a car crush while talking with me by a phone, even though I wondered time and again if father blamed me for it, it still was something I could work to overcome.

The same cannot be said about Emma. She was my best friend, then she suddenly wasn't. When I returned from a summer trip, Emma had a new friend - Sophia - and she made it clear that she didn't want to have anything to do with me.  
Well, that wasn't true. She still wanted to interact with me, just not as a friend. She made me into her victim, pulling vicious "pranks" and turning all my little secrets I confided in her against me.  
There was no explanation, no reason for the change that I knew. It was if one day Emma was replaced by a doppelganger or possessed.

Perhaps it was true.

She, Sophia and Madison - a girl who joined them later - made my life in school a living hell. I could do nothing about it. Trying to talk to Emma resulted in verbal abuse. Going to teachers was useless - they preferred to believe the trio of popular girls and their supporters over an introvert loner like me. And the bullying was worse after the attempts. I was afraid to tell anything to my father, given how hard he took the previous tragedy. To learn that I had no friends - no, that my friend turned against me, and that I was a victim of bullying campaign... I didn't want to learn what it would do to him.

Every action invited retribution. And so the only course of action left to me was to endure.

That lack of control, that lack of understanding the reasons behind what was done to me - that scared me the most.

Given the situation, it was understandable that the last thing I expected to find waking up one morning was Emma crawling in my bed.

I didn't expect her to be devouring my arm, either, for different reasons.

I knew I should have felt pain. I knew I should have screamed. I suspected the pain woke me up in the first place. Yet, I just laid there, staring at Emma crushing my bone between her teeth. Was I in shock? Was the scene just too surreal for me to act? Was I just used to silently endure whatever Emma did to me? Was I going to die? Perhaps it would be for the best...

Emma must've noticed that I wasn't sleeping anymore. She rose from her position and looked me right in the eyes.

She smiled.

For once in a long time, there was no malice in her expression.

Everything went black.

* * *

"Over the course of the next two weeks, you are going to go through the tests - medical and psychological - then you are free to go." The middle-aged woman who spoke glared at me like my mere presence offended her on a deep level. It was probably true, though I wasn't alone who could accomplish that. Tomato - I mean, Mato Touma - didn't get along with many people. None in this clinic, certainly. I guess that comes with being a perfect predator: she was the one who put most patients here in the first place, going with human skills alone against monsters. She looked the part, too. She was... perfectly utilitarian, I would say. There was not a single unnecessary detail to her: her body was pure muscles, her attire functional and designed to not impede movements, her hair cut short, her face sharp, eyes always focused straight ahead, never losing sight of her goal. Me, currently. It was probably not a good thing that she was in charge of my life. Though apparently it was going to change.

"Huh?" I replied intelligently. It was a known fact that nobody left from here. Well, none of the people with the syndrome, to be precise. Over the last two years, I've made peace with the fact. My life was still controlled by forces outside of my control, but it was better. It was a kind of progress, I guess?

"You heard me." Her scowl deepened. "The PRT presses us to get results, even if they aren't ideal. The Agonism outburst was a major blow to parahuman image. The old hate groups which disappeared after the first Endbringer attacks made themselves known once again. The PRT wants to show that they are in control of the situation, that this institute works. Releasing a patient and helping her to become a productive member of society would contribute to that goal. Or so they say." She scoffed. "As far as I am concerned, you all are just disasters waiting to happen."

Ah, that explained it.

The Abnormal Antagonist Syndrome, called Agonism by some, has given parahuman researchers plenty of material to work with, though they probably weren't very glad about it. It was the betrayal. There were always unpleasant sides to superpowers. Endbringers and people who turned into monsters, physically or mentally. But they could be explained as anomalies or a product of some malicious intent. For all the Endbringers were slowly destroying humanity, there were only three of them. They were easily labeled as "others", an outside threat against which the humanity could unite (to some extent, anyway. It looks like even the possibility of extinction wouldn't stop the bickering between politicians). For all the perspective of turning into a monster was terrifying, they were a rarity among capes, not something you needed to worry about. On the whole, superpowers became a natural part of life, something you just accepted as a given.

Agonism has broken that comfort.

The syndrome acts on people with ongoing social problems. More often then not, victims suffer from isolation. In that, the syndrome is no different from normal when it comes to gaining superpowers. However, unlike with regular parahumans, there is no "trigger event" upon which powers manifest themselves. Instead, a slow process takes place. It starts with mental changes, causing afflicted to become easily irritable, paranoid, prone to emotional outbursts and, well, antagonistic. This phase usually lasts for about a month. After that, physical changes start, part of a person's anatomy turning physically impossible. Most people die during that phase. Those who survive find themselves in a possession of stabilized (but usually not very healthy) mental state and superpowers. Of a sort.

Unlike regular superpowers which typically grant you abilities that seemingly come from nowhere, the syndrome tend to focus on a single part of the anatomy: a guy with modified stomach who could eat anything, another who could spin his neck around and cause everyone who witness it to do the same - with lethal consequences to them. This kind of thing. Though cases where the whole body was changed or the location of change couldn't be found due to the effects are not unheard of.

What was interesting is that the changes typically allowed the afflicted to address the issues which presumably led them to develop the syndrome in the first place, though never to resolve it completely.

Apparently, it was similar to how the regular powers worked as well. Which suggested some disturbing possibilities.

Given that information, it was not surprising that the public was scared of parahumans now. The Brockton Bay massacre which depopulated an entire district of the city didn't help, either. Some people even called us "possessed" now.

"Why me, though?" I awoke from my musing to find Touma idly playing with a pen - always a bad sign.

"You are our best candidate," she spat as a curse, "by virtue of being able to meaningfully communicate with people."

When the afflicted were removed from the source of their troubles, they either turned violent or lifeless. The violent were isolated, the lifeless wondered the complex grounds, never straying from the path alloted to them, never complaining about their treatment and, well, never showing interest in anything.

That didn't apply to me, though, as far as I knew. I suspected it was due to the nature of my "power" which consisted of an amazing ability to forget everything that happened during the daytime. It was surprisingly comforting, on a level, to have my whole life reduced to a few quick sentences I wrote in my notepad. I didn't need to pay attention to anything I didn't care about. I didn't need to understand anything that happened around me. All will disappear come a nightfall. And so, I was free to act as I please. There were no consequences to my actions, only things that happened to me because of unknown reasons.

What it says about me that I took giving up any control over my life as a solution to the lack of control?

Touma knew all about it, of course. Which is why she always arranged our meetings at night.

"So, I am going to be free?"

"No. You'll leave the clinic. You are still an agonist." She did like to remind me of that. "Over the next two weeks, you'll be evaluated on your ability to function in the society..."

"How exactly?" I interrupted. It wasn't wise to provoke her, but satisfying.

"Does it matter?" She shrugged, impassive. "You'll forget anyway. Now, what else? You'll be on welfare for some time, so you shouldn't worry about the money. You'll be provided with an apartment as well, in New-York. The government expects you to complete your education and find a job, though."

"As a part of showing the results?"

"Yes, so don't relax too much. Money flow will stop eventually. If you can't handle yourself by that time, your loss." She looked entirely too happy with the possibility. "You'll need to check with me regularly, but that's something we can discuss later."

"That would be all for now?" I asked, tired of the conversation.

"Ye... One more thing." A rare sight: Touma unsure of her words. "You still have the problem with the arm?"

"Yeah." As if she didn't know. I've lost my arm on that day. That tend to happen when someone eats it. My case was unusual, however, as is often the case with agonists. No prostheses worked for me. All felt wrong. High-tech models refused to obey my commands, more simple ones just got in the way constantly. Even an arm created by Panacea refused to work properly. Well, that wasn't surprising: for all she could treat normal maladies like they were nothing, it was rare to see her being able to do anything to agonists. She said that the problems could be rooted in our brains, perhaps to Corona Something-or-other, the source of superpowers, which she couldn't affect.

Was it a part of my power, I wondered? An ability to not have an arm? Or was it something Emma did to me? Both possibilities were fitting the general theme of my life, really.

"Take this, then," Touma said, handling a slip of paper to me. There was an address written. "Go there once you are settled. You may find the solution to your problem."

Like that would ever happen. Still, it was something that made impeccable Touma uncomfortable, which was good in my book. And hey, what's the worst that could happen?

I carefully copied the address in my notepad.


	3. Coils That Bind

**.**

**Coils That Bind**

(Pact crossover)

Sarah took a deep breath and entered the room. The new girl didn't react. She was in the same position as Sarah left her to discuss the matter with Rachel and Alec - seemingly content to just sit on the sofa and stare at the floor.

Sarah watched her for a few moments, taking in the pale face, the dark circles under the eyes, the empty, defeated look. And the dried blood marking her clothes and hair.

Then she closed her eyes, took another breath, and opened them. And then she opened her eyes again. She shuddered. Under her Sight the girl looked... wrong.

She was broken. A web of cracks covered her whole body, bigger holes crudely stitched together with what looked like razor wire. Upon her heart the wire was torn apart and cracks formed a spiral - a mark of _his_ influence.

It was no wonder that _he_ managed to lay a claim on the girl. She had very few connection to this world. And those that existed were not benign. Where they connected with the girl, cracks originated, flesh parting under sharp edges formed of spirits.

Nobody would miss her if she were gone. She was rejected by the mortal world. She was thrown away, and it was inevitable that _someone_ would pick her up.

It is not to say that the girl didn't have benign connections at all. A twisted shadow coiled around her body under her clothes, mouth formed by the absence of light whispering something into her ear. Sarah couldn't tell if the shadow was crawling from the cracks or pouring itself _in_. As far as she could see, there was no malice in it, despite the monstrous appearance, not directed at the girl at least. But such connections weren't helpful when one tried to hold onto their humanity.

Sarah took a third deep breath before acting. The sight of the girl intimidated her, but she needed allies if she were to ever get out of her situation. And the girl herself needed support just to avoid falling through her own cracks, never to be seen again.

Sarah walked to the sofa with confidence she didn't feel, sat besides the girl and hugged her, trying not to pay attention to the shadow parting around her hands. The girl froze for a few moments before slowly rising her head to look at Sarah. Sarah noticed that a few minor cracks closed under her touch. She took it as a good sign.

"Hello," she said, releasing her hug and trying to smile. "I didn't introduce myself properly before. I am Sarah Duchamp. What's your name?"

The girl just looked at her for a few moments as if remembering how to speak.

"Taylor," she said at last. "Taylor Hebert."

"Taylor," repeated Sarah, smiling again. Spirits around them swirling, forming a new connection. It didn't do anything to the cracks that Sarah could see, but she hoped it would help with time. She let her smile drop before saying: "Now, listen. You are in a bad situation now, but you are not alone. We are in the same boat, and I am going to do my best to get us out of here. In that, you can trust me."

Taylor winced, a few cracks reappearing where they were closed by Sarah's touch.

"You can," said Sarah forcefully. "You know the rule about lying, right?"

The girl nodded hesitantly.

"It's not that," she said. "Mostly not. It's... What happened... I deser-"

Sarah quickly put a hand on her mouth.

"Don't say it! You would be lying. _Nobody_ deserves that. Nobody deserves _him_."

Sarah looked into Taylor's eye until the girl nodded. Sarah removed her hand.

"I understand that something horrible happened to you," she said. "You wouldn't be here otherwise. But you can't give in to _him_. You can't just accept what _he_ does to you. No matter what you did, _he_ is worse. No matter what you did, you deserve to get out. No matter what you did, I believe you can atone for it by fighting _him_."

Taylor returned to staring at the floor.

Sarah contemplated what to do next.

"Why don't you tell me your story?" she said at last. "And I'll tell you mine. If you want, that is. It's fine if you don't want to talk about that."

Taylor continued staring at the floor. Just when Sarah started to believe she wasn't going to talk, Taylor looked her in the eye with a dead expression on her face.

"I wanted them to suffer."

* * *

Taylor's parents often argued when they thought she was asleep and couldn't hear them. She didn't understand it. Not because she couldn't understand adult matters - mister Barnes often talked about his work with her father when she visited Emma, and she could understand him just fine - but because their words didn't make sense.

They argued about something they called "others", about stalking shadows, the circle getting out of control, crying walls and ambitions of Lords.

When she tried to ask them why they argued, her father told her they weren't, that she must have had a bad dream, and her mother remained silent. They never argued by the light of the day, never even uttered the words she heard from them on such nights. It was like they were different people, happier but also somehow less.

In their night arguments, sometimes they would talk about whether they should protect Taylor from "this world" or bring her into it, and she thought, perhaps that is the answer. Perhaps there is another, moonlit world where people changed, assuming new personalities and perhaps even new faces. A world with a different logic where bleeding windows were a common topic of conversation whereas mundane things familiar to her were nonsense.

Taylor found the answer to that mystery eventually, when she was sorting through her mother's things in search for something she could bring to school as a lucky charm that would allow her to endure another day of torment.

Her mother was a witch.

Seven old leather-bound books, thirteen hand-written journals and a flute, packed into a dusty trunk and hidden away in the corner of the basement, easily overlooked if one didn't go through everything.

Taylor skimmed through the books and journals, not believing what was written in them. They were talking about things belonging to the moonlit world of her childhood, about magic and monsters, and her mother's place among all of that.

Taylor put the books aside and just sat there, trying to make sense of it all. Her sight fell on the flute.

She remembered hearing about the flute in one of her parents' arguments. Her mother asked for the flute to be destroyed should something happened to her. It seemed her father never did. Taylor understood that. Even if the flute was somehow dangerous, it was still something belonging to her mother. To destroy it was to erase the connection, and that was not something she could willingly do.

In that moment, it became clear to her that she was going to follow the instructions given in the book titled "Essentials". She didn't believe in magic, but that didn't matter. It was something her mother believed in. It was something she did. And it was something Taylor will do.

And maybe she can find some peace of mind, an anchor keeping her in this world and giving her life some meaning.

* * *

Taylor finished drawing the diagram and walked around it, carefully comparing the design from all angles with that pictured in one of her mother's books.

In the past few months a world of opportunities has opened for her, but her situation didn't significantly improve. Magic, it seemed, didn't provide easy solutions.

She could cross her connections to her tormentors twice, but on the third time they would strike back, with more viciousness than usual. She could inscribe a rune on her bathroom stall which diverted anyone's attention, but it didn't prevent her from being caught right outside.

Perhaps she was picked on less by girls following Emma's lead, perhaps she was now ignored by boys trying to score with Madison, but that didn't fix the issue at the core of the matter.

In fact, it just made the conflict to escalate.

What they did to her the other week finally pushed her to search for a more permanent solution. To fight back.

Karma was real, and what she was planning to do would just restore the balance, right?

Her mother did it, so it can't be wrong, right?

She wasn't going to do anything too bad. Just scare them away from her, just make them focus on their own problems. After all she endured, it was only just, right?

Diagram was as precise as it could be. Taylor knew it was time to start, but she hesitated. After looking at the diagram for a few moments, she decided to reread the entries on those she decided to use.

"Two are done, one to go," she whispered.

* * *

_**The Smiling Siblings**_

A pair of bogeymen first bound by Adolfo de Jesus Constanzo. No individual names were given to them in urban legends since they always work together. They call each other Brian and Aisha.

Brian looks like a tall broad man wearing a motorcycle helmet concealing the fact his head is a naked skull. He can extinguish all artificial light within an area the size of a typical house. Moonlight and starlight are diminished as well, though not completely blocked. Sunlight isn't affected. Within an area affected by him, perception becomes unreliable. Sounds appear to be closer or further away than they are in reality, sensations are much sharper than normal, smells feel subtly wrong, etc.  
He can also grant a gift of seeing in the darkness in exchange of a piece of a practitioner's skin the size of a palm which he uses to rebuild his face (so far unsuccessfully).

Aisha appears as a young black girl in colorful "trashy" clothes, with a permanent broad smile on her face. She naturally conceals all connections leading to her, disappearing from perception. That effect is so persistent that in fact she has to expend power to be perceived at all. She carries a knife with her which doesn't appear to have any unusual properties.

Their usual Modus Operandi is to stalk a chosen victim, haunting them with gaslighting, sudden appearances, laugh in the dead of night and other such tactics enabled by Aisha's nature. This continues until the victim is scared sufficiently for their liking at which point they wait or arrange for the victim to be alone and engage in a hunt in the darkness created by Brian, culminating in murder of the victim.

They appear to have some moral code, likely originating from their human life, as they go after drug dealers and abusers rather than random victims.

They are unusually reasonable for bogeymen, cooperating with practitioners willingly as long as they are not send after the innocents.

While they can be summoned separately, it is not recommended as they react violently to that and are likely to sabotage a practitioner's orders as much as the binding allows.

In summoning ritual, additional precautions must be taken to counteract Aisha's concealment ability...

_**The Shadow Stalker**_

An Other on the line between a revenant and a bogeyman. She was first bound by Amanda Holloway. As is typical for Holloway, Shadow Stalker's story before her transmogrification was recorded.

Her real name was Sophia Hess. She died in 1989, August first, murdered by her stepfather who was quickly apprehended by the police and sentenced to a life in prison. Soon after the sentence was carried out, he reported hearing distant steps. He reported them twice more, insisting that he can hear them getting closer. His claims were dismissed. When he reacted violently, he was put into solitary confinement. On the seventh day from his first report, he was found dead, apparently strangled.

Since then, Shadow Stalker started appearing regularly, going after murderers and abusers. With time, her victim profile expanded to include other criminals, likely indicating the loss of humanity and acceptance of her new nature.

Shadow Stalker is rarely used offensively. She takes seven days to complete the mission, during which the victim hears steps getting closer and their shadow grows darker. On the seventh day Shadow Stalker rises from the shadow and attacks the victim. Therefore, a practitioner would have plenty of time to notice the danger and find countermeasures, while an innocent is likely to be clued in to the hidden truth, adding an unnecessary karmic load to Shadow Stalker's summoner.

However, she can also be bound inside a practitioner's own shadow, from which she can be released in a moment of danger. Being in that state she would also offer the practitioner warnings about dangers she can perceive - mostly of mundane nature - in exchange of being free to whisper her advice to the practitioner. For as long as Shadow Stalker remains inside, a practitioner's shadow will never be entirely still nor entirely human-looking.

Shadow Stalker is reliable when used for revenge or when the practitioner feels in danger. However, she should not be summoned against someone who did no wrong to the practitioner as using her in such manner will enrage her and can even break the binding.

To summon her, one first needs...

_**Jack Slash**_

An old bogeyman who was around for at least four hundreds years. Was thought to be a minor demon of madness.

He appears as an unremarkable man with a goatee, usually wearing blood-stained clothes, though he is capable of hiding the stains if needed.

He styles himself "an angel of Karma", though the wording he uses indicates it's not a literal statement but merely self-identification. He enjoys delivering what he considers "ironic" punishments, though more often than not he is the one driving his victims to commit atrocities he punishes them for.

He does so by sending vivid dreams to his victims. Over time they poison victims' minds, compelling them to act on their darkest desires.

After that he comes again to reverse the effect and to show them dreams containing memories of their own victims (if there are any, and there usually are) impressed upon the spirit world until Jack collects them.

The resulting effect is enough to drive most people to suicide, at which point Jack appears before them to "help" with that task.

On top of that, wounds inflicted by him never heal completely.

Jack Slash is cruel, manipulative, unpredictable, smart and dangerous. He must be treated with care by the practitioner.

The steps to ensure his obedience are...

* * *

Taylor took a deep breath.

The first binding was easy. The Smiling Siblings were already on their way to "play" with Madison. They won't use lethal force - Taylor made sure of it - but they would pay her back for all the "pranks" she played on Taylor.

The second binding was more tricky. For that Taylor had to draw a silhouette around her own shadow, which was rather hard to do with her moving. Eventually she settled on using sympathetic magic to move the chalk without bending and later drawing the hand by memory, correcting it for mistakes afterwards.

Still, it was a success. A smoky figure was now woven around her, empty eyes searching for any sign of danger, black lips near her ear ready to whisper a warning or advice.

Taylor felt strangely comforted by the embrace. She suddenly realized that the only human contact she had in years were pushes, shoves and attempts to trip her.

"Right. No more procrastinating," she said, focusing on the task before her.

She took a kitchen knife and hit the floor in the dead center of the diagram, making sure that the knife is stuck and won't fall under its own power.

Taking her place in a smaller circle connected with the main diagram. She took the flute that now served as her implement. It was imperfect, she suspected, a tool of subtle control, of suggestions and coercion, not a match for someone who did what she was doing. But it once belonged to her mother, it was a connection that mattered more than most other things for her, a link to the past. And that, she thought, had to be enough.

She started a simple melody.

She knew she was playing with fire. She knew there were safer options for her to use. She knew she was probably making a mistake, an inexperienced practitioner trying to bind something those who literally wrote books on the subject called dangerous.

But he could make Emma experience what she did to Taylor. All the pranks, all the insults, all thousands little things that, combined, made Taylor's life a torment - Emma will share them.

In the end, Taylor had to admit, she wanted Emma to suffer like she had suffered.

The last notes of binding song died. For a moment, all was silent.

Taylor blinked, and then there was a man standing in the diagram and playing with the kitchen knife. He smiled at her warmly.

"My lady, it's good to see you again." His smile grew malicious. "I assume you desire another sinful man ruined?"

Taylor stared at him for a moment.

"It is the first time I summon you, Jack Slash."

The man chuckled.

"Ah, time flies for one such as I. Would you be Annette's daughter, then?"

"Yes." Taylor finally put the pieces together. Many Others, especially older ones, could see no difference between descendants and ancestors. Debts passed from mother to daughter, grudges were nursed through generations, Karma accumulated - good and bad. That Jack Slash could even realize the nature of his mistake was remarkable.

Taylor didn't miss the implication that her mother apparently used his services often enough to be remembered, but decided to think about it another time.

"Then, I am glad to see you following in her footsteps. To end the line with your mother would truly be a loss..." The man was silent for a time, smiling wistfully. "So, what task do you have for me, practitioner?"

Taylor pointed at the two coffee cups standing at the edge of the diagram.

"Take my hairs from this one." She indicated one of the cups. "Use it to find memories of misery and suffering. Most of them would be at school. Can you find them?"

"Of course."

"Good. Then take the hairs of the target from this cup." She pointed at the cup containing an old lock of hairs Emma gave her to wear in a locket, back before all of it started. "Find her through them. Can you do it?"

Jack Slash looked closely at the cup.

"It's old, but the trail is still there. Nothing hard."

"Good. Then deliver all the misery onto the target. Give her dreams where she will feel what I felt."

Jack smiled.

"Ah, it is always nice to see some good retribution. Sometimes people escape the consequences of their actions, and it is my pleasure to deliver them personally."

Taylor nodded.

"No harm shall be done to her. Just dreams."

"Don't hurt her," whispered a voice in Taylor's ear. "Kill her."

"Now, now, little shadow," chastised Jack. "It won't do to deliver all wrongs at once. A good karmic punishment should be savored. What is the point in killing someone who didn't learn their lesson yet?"

"No," said Taylor. "No killings, no lethal force. I want her to suffer what I suffered. No more, no less."

Jack sighed.

"Well, it's still a good start. I should do as you say for now. I am sure you'll come around eventually." He smiled. "As your mother did."

* * *

_He could be seen by the absence of both light and darkness._

_He could be felt by the numbness of your skin._

_He could be heard by the silence that couldn't be broken by the loudest of screams._

_He could be smelt by the feeling of unreality that comes with an absence of any background odors._

_He could be tasted by the hunger that was not sated by any food._

_Formless, not quite real, he had no place in this world, defined only by what he was not. He existed in realities that cannot be, waiting for an opportunity to add one more to his domain._

_The opportunity presented itself. Karmic balance shifted just right, and what was a success didn't happen. An event was lost from reality, and it rearranged itself around the impossibility, ignoring it the best it could, forming a new chain of events._

_One that coiled in accord with his design._

* * *

Taylor was jolted awake by the sharp voice speaking right into her ear.

"Danger. Somewhere in the house."

She scrambled on her feet and managed to put on her glasses on the second try.

"What kind of danger?" she whispered, looking around. Her room looked ordinary, and even her Sight didn't reveal anything unusual, but then, with beings like Aisha that wasn't a guarantee. She should look into protective practices as soon as possible.

"Blood is spilled. Muffled scream was sound. To the right of this room."

Taylor's blood froze.

She ran.

Thoughts of what it could be, of what she can do swarmed inside her head, but each disappeared into the dark void consuming her mind.

In the end, only panic remained, and a desperate prayer to anyone who could hear that somehow it was a mistake, somehow everything was fine.

She opened the door, nearly slipping on something wet.

Inside she saw Jack Slash standing above _

He has a bloodied kitchen knife in his hand.

"Ah, young practitioner," Jack said. "I thought I had a bit more time to play with _ before you wake up. Should have accounted for your little shadow."

There was so much blood.

"Alas, it appears your binding was imperfect. I was thrown back here. But don't think about it as a failure. Think about it as a lesson for the future."

_ slowly turned his head, coughing blood. He looked at Taylor.

"I am not going to do anything to you, of course. I do like you - well, I guess I should say I liked your mother - and I believe you have a long way ahead of you. But, you know, the nature of bindings. Backlash is a menace for practitioners like you. You'll do well to remember that. And, hey! _ needed to learn a lesson, don't you agree? He was a crappy father, what with not noticing your misery, missing your awakening and all. He even missed my return, though not my knife. That he noticed."

Taylor looked into _ eyes. He tried to say something, but only blood came from his lips.

"And you know the best part? He knows you were the one who called me."

The light went out of _ eyes.

And something numb coiled around Taylor's heart.

* * *

"He died because of me." Taylor was looking straight at Sarah. She was eerily calm, her face an emotionless mask. But Sarah saw cracks appearing under her eyes, she saw the remnants of what she knew now to be the connection to Taylor's father tearing into her flesh. And she saw Shadow Stalker filling those cracks, darkness turning into razor wire to bind the wounds together. She didn't like it one bit, but there wasn't much she could do. Even a company of a monster was better than no company at all. "If I didn't call for him, if I didn't try to pursue revenge, if I just asked him about it before doing anything..."

Sarah put her hands on Taylor's shoulders firmly.

"Listen to me," she said. "_He_ is the one living in what-ifs. We live in the here and now. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps there were better ways for you. But dwelling on it isn't going to help you now. And make no mistake, I am going to help you."

Taylor blinked, surprise on her face.

"I know your story now," said Sarah. "And I am fine with it. You've made mistakes, but the same can be said for all of us. We are together in it, and I swear to you, I'll do my best to get us out of it together."

"You... swore?"

"Yes. Will you help?"

"I... Yes, I will."

Taylor's eyes changed in that moment. Shimmering impossibilities coiled inside of them, not perceived but felt in the implications. Mocking.

Sarah knew her own eyes looked the same.


	4. Everything Is Better with Taylor

**.**

**Everything Is Better with Taylor**

Lung was one of the most powerful capes to walk the Earth. He has fought Leviathan to a standstill. Alone, he could fight all of the Empire capes, at least now that some of them left. He was tough to start with, and he just grew stronger the longer a fight lasted.

Ironically, he was also an ideal target for my power.

I couldn't do what I was planning to do with the Empire capes.

I couldn't do it to the Merchants.

I wouldn't do it to most capes I knew about. Lung was an exception.

I stepped out of my cover and walked towards Lung and his followers, trying to project confidence I didn't feel. I probably should have just used my power without anyone seeing me, but the show was important for my plan.

They noticed me and shouted, altering Lung. Some drew guns.

"I couldn't allow you to do what you are planning," I said. "Leave, or I'll fight you."

He looked at me impassively. I was acutely aware of my costume, if it can be called that: a simple jacket with a fur collar, worn over a gray hoodie, and a scarf covering the lower half of my face. Not impressive by any measure.

"I am Lung," he said. "You are new. Leave, and I'll forget you."

I used my power.

Lung screamed.

He clutched at his mask, tearing it away. I saw his face, unnaturally twisted and deformed. Before my eyes flesh parted, only to be healed by his regeneration. Blood concealed the eyes rolling madly in their sockets.

Bulges appeared on the rest of his body, something pushing from under the skin. He grew bigger, and the combination of his transformation with the twisting caused by my power caused grotesque convulsions.

He screamed again, a primal sound of rage, and a fireball flew right next to my head. I could feel the heat, I could feel the pain.

I froze. More fire soared around me.

Lung was blind, but that didn't stop him from hauling fire in my direction.

I was going to die.

Any second now I was going to die.

What the hell was I doing?

A chuckle escaped my lips.

All of it was just so ridiculous.

My powers, my going against Lung, my life before all of that, the way I discovered my power.

Everything.

Not that it mattered. I was going to die.

I couldn't help it. I laughed. I stayed in the middle of a fire inferno which was going to consume me any moment, and I laughed. Even to my ears the sound was deranged.

When I came to my senses, I wasn't dead. I nearly started to laugh again at the thought.

Lung was lying in a small pool of boiling blood. He must have set himself on fire at some point. His flesh parted, though I could see the gushes slowly closing. So he wasn't dead, either.

He was surrounded by puppies covered in his blood. They were slowly making their way to me, slipping on the wet ground. Another puppy emerged from one of the Lung's wounds. It shrugged with its whole body, trying to get the blood out of its fur, before looking at me and waving its tail.

I looked at the Lung's people. They were watching the scene in shock. Those who were standing close to Lung now were away, likely they ran for cover when he started the fireworks.

I tried to clear my throat and coughed at the smoke. They jumped and looked at me.

"Do... Do you want the same to happen to you?" My voice cracked, but that seemed to just unnerve them more. "Take him and go."

They did.

One of them pointed a gun at me, and I looked at her, not quite sure what I should do and if I should do anything at all. Wasn't I supposed to be dead, after all? She lowered the gun and ran.

Four guys who went to take Lung tried to not get anywhere near the puppies.

Once the last of them disappeared into the night, I allowed myself to collapse on my knees. I sat there, surrounded by bloody puppies licking my fingers and making cute noises.

Where has my life gone wrong?

Suddenly I heard a voice.

"Bitch, no! Stop!"

I slowly turned to look.

Three monstrous dogs emerged from shadows, surrounding me. From behind them, a heavy-set girl with a dog mask carelessly hanging on her neck strolled to me and put a hand on my shoulder.

"We are keeping her," she said to someone I couldn't see in the unusually dark shadows.


	5. A Beautiful Sound of Life

**.**

**A Beautiful Sound of Life**

(Crossover with games Middens and Gingiva)

Filth surrounded me. It was on my skin and in my clothes and in my hair and in my mouth after I screamed it hoarse. It moved in accordance to my own trashing, but it didn't matter - it was everywhere.

There was no escape. There was barely any place to move at all, and every convulsion of my body brought pain as my limbs or my head was hitting the walls until all I could see were patches of colors not belonging to this world.

In those patches I saw a great web of worms leaving silk trails behind. Buildings, landscapes and creatures I could not describe were caught in that web, trashing in tune with me. The web was spreading, consuming new material, turning it inside out, giving freedom to what was once hidden away and expanding the bizarre collage.

And in the center of the web there was a face. My face, composed of silk and worms.

The face screamed and the world shattered.

* * *

I awoke to the sound of chewing. Teeth grinding against stone, wood, flesh and metal, all merging into a beautiful melody of consumption.

I rose my head and looked around, trying to determine the direction of the sound, but there wasn't one. The sound was inside my head.

Huh. I didn't know there was so much junk in my head.

The mystery solved, I looked around once more, now paying closer attention to my surroundings.

I was lying in a small bare room with a single light bulb hanging above a vending machine at the dead center.

It was good. My throat was raw, so soda would be welcome right now.

I stood up and made my way to the vending machine. Unfortunately, it was almost empty. Only a single revolver with a black-and-white striped handle was inside.

That was weird. Who would put a gun inside a vending machine? It was sad to realize that you were too late to buy the last soda, but it was no reason to kill yourself, right?

The revolver opened its eye above the cylinder and looked at me. Its lips located between the barrel and the trigger moved and it said, "Have I gone mad being alone here for so long? Or is it a living person I see before me?"

I stared at the revolver. The revolver stared back.

"Excuse me if I do not utter correct and pleasing words," it said. "My lips lack the social practice."

I relaxed a bit. That was something I could relate to.

"Oh," I said before coughing. My throat was dry, and while speaking was not exactly painful, it was weird. Like I didn't do it in a long time. "I am the one who should apologize," I said after regaining control over my voice. "I don't think we covered how to properly address a revolver."

"A regretful but understandable oversight. Firearms are often treated with disrespect and even sometimes considered second-class citizens by primitive societies not understanding that the purpose of opposite thumbs is to carry guns around and put them to good use, like the purpose of your own body is to allow your brain to interact with the world. I should overlook that. Shall we then dispense with pleasantries and cut to the chase?"

"That being?"

"The rift is alive, and its form can be said to reflect the functioning of its mind, of drifting memories specifically. Trying to map its landmarks or borders would be futile as they change day to day, just like your memories change every time you recall them to the surface and every time you add something new to your experience. The emotional connections are more important than the physical location.

"As you can see, I am a prisoner here. The Marquess didn't like to look at a weapon that killed his predecessor, yet couldn't bring himself to get rid of me entirely. And so I was put here until this very room fell through the cracks of his regime.

"And as I am a prisoner, so must be you to enter this place."

"Am I?" The sound of chewing increased in intensity and became louder. Something was rising within me. Something that I didn't want to touch. Something that I didn't want to make a part of my experience.

"Don't you know? Perhaps a look back would tell you?"

I stared at the revolver. It blinked. Or maybe winked. I wasn't sure as I couldn't see its other eye if it had two.

I didn't want to look back. And I didn't want to remember. I knew that a blissful haze of the chewing sound was so much better than whatever awaited me there.

But... there wasn't much else to do in this empty room. There wasn't even a soda.

I turned back.

There was a hole in the wall near which I was lying earlier. The hole was bleeding.

Memories of my confinement flashed before my eyes. Time immeasurable spent inside a dark coffin with dried blood and other liquids subsuming me.

I threw up. Long thick worms fell from my mouth and burrowed themselves into the ground, joining the chewing sounds in my head which were reaching crescendo.

The smell of my vomit created a contrast to the smell I felt for so long I became accustomed to it.

Filth.

I looked at myself. My clothes were dirty, bloody. I clawed at them until I managed to get the sweater off of me, but it wasn't much help. The filth was on my skin and in my pores.

I shuddered. There was a hole in my chest, more worms coiled around my heart, and they shuddered too, trying to get away from the filth intruding on their domain.

"I see your insides don't have much love for this place," the revolver said. "How about we make a deal before they decide to make any drastic moves?"

Its voice distracted me from trying to scrap the filth out of my skin, which only resulted in adding my own blood to it. I concentrated on breathing through my mouth. Deep slow breaths, each one resonating with chewing sound, which was slowly fading to the edges of my consciousness. A calming presence.

"A deal?" I asked.

"A simple one," the revolver said. "You let me out of my small cage, and I'll help you get out of your larger one. A further cooperation could be arranged, should you feel the need to liberate more blood than you did by creating that hole."

"I... don't think I am going to kill anyone."

"Surely whoever has put you there would object to you escaping the captivity."

"It doesn't work like that," I said. "They are bullies, not guards. They... did what they did because it was _fun _to them, and me escaping would be just another opportunity to make fun of me for them."

"And wouldn't it be fun to put some bullets inside their heads? That's the punchline that fits every joke."

I considered it.

"No... I'll just get in trouble with the authorities over it."

"I have many bullets. And there is no problem that can't be solved by pulling a trigger one more time."

I was too tired to argue. And the argument sounded too logical to me to see any holes in it.

"Let's concentrate on the matter at hand," I said. "I want... no, I _need _to get out of here. And I am willing to accept your help. After that... we'll see."

The revolver smiled.

"Great, great, great, great," it said. "I have a feeling we are going to be great partners, you and me. And to mark the beginning our partnership, I'll give you my name. You may call me Genie."

"Taylor," I said. I wasn't sure if I were supposed to say anything else in such a situation.

I put a quarter into the vending machine and pulled Genie out. The gun fit perfectly in my hand.

I faced the bleeding darkness and shot it.

* * *

The school was deserted. I liked it that way. There was no one to harass me, no one to fear. No one to laugh at me.

I walked the empty corridors looking around for the first time in years.

Were windows always like that? Stained glass arranged in pictures of me delivering holy wrath to my tormentors. Did I not notice it before because I always kept my head down?

The pictures were pretty. They bothered me for some reason, though.

Finally I reached the entrance and stepped outside.

The sight of an alien landscape greeted me.

No, it wasn't quite correct. Brockton Bay, the city I grew up in, was still here, still visible. But the alien elements were imposed upon it.

Taller buildings were turned into skyscrapers with scrap metal and unsupported stairways leading to what looked like different buildings placed on top of them. I could see splashes of color in the distance, some weird purple-green plant consuming a whole district turning it into bizarre jungles. A flock of needles was flying in the sky.

There were more unfamiliar elements which I had trouble describing. They collided, seamlessly shifting from one to another, creating a collage that looked whole despite massive differences between its parts.

I placed a hand with Genie on my temple, the cold metal calming against my skin.

Something was wrong with me. Even though I knew Brockton Bay shouldn't look like that, it felt right. And... there shouldn't be a room with a vending machine behind the lockers, right? Or talking guns, or stained glass windows, or filth on my skin.

Why did it took me so long to realize?

I searched my mind for more elements that didn't fit the reality I knew, but I couldn't find any. Not that those I discovered already weren't enough to worry about.

"What happened here?" I asked. Was it an Endbringer attack? Mr. Freedom was known to change the landscape at least once on a similar scale, more if one believed the rumors about cordoned areas. And if he could turn people into objectivists, he probably could do other mental alterations.

"The rift is intruding upon your world, I would assume," said Genie.

"The rift..." I felt weird about that word. I was pretty sure I didn't know what Genie was talking about, yet it felt familiar. Another element out of place. I tried to concentrate on this feeling, get to the root of the problem. "I think you mentioned it before. What is it?" That must be it. I must have remembered Genie talking about it, even though I had troubles recalling the exact words, which wasn't surprising considering everything else that happened.

"The rift is the inside that wants to be the outside. It is the space between realities and the glue that keeps the universes in the right arrangement, separate from each other. However, it is unhappy with its lot in life. It wants to be more than a space between spaces. And so it searches for the cracks in the worlds to pour outside and consume them."

I considered it.

The world is rotten, my mother used to say.

The world is rotten to the core.

So, it's not surprising it was falling apart, right? Tearing down at the seams, elements falling from the whole to be captured by the rift between.

It was only natural.

I listened to the sound of chewing, and it reaffirmed my conclusion.

Genie continued to talk.

"Once the rift sets its numerous eyes on a new target, it first claims those that don't belong. People opening their heart to anything that could wonder inside to fill the void left there by those who should have been their peers. The rifts sends its native creatures lacking form there - stray spirits and homeless gods. They share the material form with their hosts, and the hosts gain abilities beyond those natural to their species. And through them, the rift claims the land on which they walk. The process is slow at first, yet inevitable for each thought directed towards rift's creations expands its borders."

"Wait,that doesn't sound right," I said after thinking it through. "The city wasn't like that last time I saw it. Which was... hours ago? I guess. So it wasn't exactly slow."

"The rift is prone to the fits of fancy. Some snacks it consumes bit by bit. With others, it waits until it can consume them whole."

I nodded slowly. I guess it didn't really matter. The world was falling apart. Fast or slow, the result was the same in the end. And since I had no attachments to it, it didn't bother me. In this new world I still had no friends, no connections to the rest of the society. Now, though, I had a partner. That was a step up, as far as I was concerned.

I frowned. The thought didn't feel quite right. Another rift between what I knew and what I felt. I pondered it, trying to find the source of the mental divergence. And then it hit me.

"Dad!" I shouted and started to run.

* * *

The streets were mostly empty. Sometimes I've heard movement clearly not belonging to humans - skittering noises of thousands little legs, enormous steps of some giant making the ground tremble, flattering of wings - but the folds of spiral paper passages were hiding the rift denizens from me.

My luck ran out in an alley of broken mirrors near my home. A giant octopus wearing a helmet was standing in the middle of it, preventing my passage. It seemed to notice me and uncoiled its tentacles to slowly come closer.

"What should I do?" I asked Genie. I didn't want to backtrack. If I couldn't go through this alley, I would need to make my way through the sewer, which would take a long time.

"I don't like the look on its face," said Genie. "Let's shoot it."

"It wears a helmet," I pointed out.

"Exactly. You can't trust someone whose brains you can't see. How about we make a peephole?"

"It isn't necessary dangerous," I said, rising the revolver.

"The rift is vast and its denizens are horrid. It needs a cleansing but it cannot cleanse itself by its own will alone. Let s give it a bath. A blood bath. That, I think, would surely benefit us all."

"Stay back!" I shouted at the octopus. It stopped advancing. "And you, don't speak to me about blood bathes," I said to Genie. "It's certainly not what _anyone_ needs."

I shuddered.

Genie sneezed, shooting the octopus in one of its tentacles.

"Excuse me," Genie said.

The octopus waved its injured tentacle frantically and started to run at me.

"Shit!" I jumped a little and pulled the trigger. Another bullet hit it in the chest. It continued to run.

So much for pacifism.

I pulled the trigger one more time, intentionally this time, and shot the octopus straight in the helmet. It fell, tentacles twitching.

"See?" said Genie. "It wasn't so bad."

I glared at the revolver. It licked my fingers.

* * *

_"Taylor, I hope you will find this note. The city is evacuating. I tried to get into the school, but the area was already cordoned. I am going to the Endbringer bunker now. Please find me there if you can. I am not sure if they would let you in, but the communication should be open, so just ask for me and I'll meet you._

_Above all else, stay safe._

_Love you,_  
_Dad."_

I stared at the words scribbled in a hurry.

It was easier said than done. I could feel the landscape shifting, the bunker descending deeper underground. And with each passing moment more and more rift denizens were walking the streets.

It was going to be a long journey. Maybe I should catch a bus.

"How many bullets do you have, exactly?" I asked Genie.

"More than you have cells in your body," it said.

Well then the path was clear.

I walked out of my home, tearing down the wall composed of my abuse diary on the way. It was stupid, anyway, like hanging posters of bands that you forget the moment they stop playing.

I took a look at my city, sprawling as far as the eye could see. Vermis slithered under my feet, straightening the road ahead of me.

It was good that I had a goal. Otherwise I would be lost there.


	6. Monster

AN: A drabble. Should be 100 words total, not counting the title.

* * *

**Monster**

Amy regretted her decision.

True, she was a monster. What she did to Victoria was unforgivable, and being locked for the rest of her life with the worst people imaginable was just what she deserved.

But... There was something worse near her. Something she didn't expect.

As she laid under the bed, curled in a ball, a terrifying figure with inhuman eyes was watching her, whispering, each word invoking a new nightmarish image.

"...Oh, and make spiders fly while you are on it. It would benefit their ability to shoot poison needles."

"Birdcage was supposed to be safe from you!"


	7. Walking with Death

**.**

**Walking with Death**

(Fate/Stay Night crossover)

I was sitting alone at lunch and watching Emma. My former best friend briefly turned into my tormentor.

It was easy to put a stop to her attempts at bullying me. It was easier still to find a reason for them.

An attack by gang members which nearly ended in her kidnapping. She was saved by Sophia Hess of all people. She wasted no time in turning Emma against me.

Could I undo the damage? Probably.

I could reveal my secrets, tempting Emma back with promises of mysteries.

I could use my secrets on her, twisting her into a state she was before the incident.

I probably could let my facade slip, revealing myself to not be a prey she believed me to be and winning her back. I was less careful with maintaining my mask anyway lately, drifting apart from people.

All options would mean confronting Sophia, which was something she undoubtedly wanted, but it could be done.

Yet, I did no such thing.

A brush with violence and a few well-chosen words - not even enhanced ones - were enough for her to severe our friendship.

In the end, it was just a confirmation of a lesson my mother tried to teach me.

Nobody can be trusted.

The only life worth living is the one I carve for myself.

The only people worth being close to are the people I control.

And so I settled on making Emma ignore me.

Sophia considered it a victory and was fond of rubbing it in my face.

I considered it a small price to pay for the reminder about human nature.

I checked my hand. Three red marks were slightly visible under the grime disturbed by the movements of worms under my skin. I was still unused to controlling them like that.

Another reason not to bother with Hess and her games. I had a bigger battle ahead of me, and I must be prepared.

* * *

When I returned home my father was already here.

"Taylor," he greeted me.

"Dad," I said heading towards the basement where my workshop was located.

My relationship with Dad was... strained. He was not one of us and never quite understood what guided our lives.

Still, he loved my mother and did everything in his power to remain a part of her life, no matter what mysteries she was entangled in.

After her death, however, it changed. He blamed the moonlit world for his loss and rejected all that was connected to it.

And, well, I belonged there.

I couldn't blame him. No matter how much I wanted to.

Magic doesn't bring happiness, and normal people would do well to stay away from it.

I made my way down the stairs loudly protesting my descend and those reminding me of the state of our house.

The building was old, only slightly younger than the town itself. Isolated and saturated with unspoken secrets as it was, it could be considered a mystery in its own right, a world onto itself where common sense held to sway.

It was a place unwelcome to visitors, always filled with quiet noises and dancing shadows not quite matching forms of objects that cast them.

I liked it.

But it did create some problems with maintenance.

Once we had servants to clear the house and make small repairs. But that was back when my mother was still alive and held the position of Second Owner of Brockton Bay, reigning over the land.

I wasn't suited for the position due to my age and relative lack of experience. The title has passed to the Hess family. Not the first candidate I would think of, given other residents, but in the eyes of the magi killing my mother was proof enough they were capable of handling the duty.

Hess family was making a lot of moves lately. It was clear that they had patronage of someone important.

With my mother dead my family's wealth was needed to maintain the waning loyalty of our allies who saw weakness in me and wondered if they should switch allegiances. And so compromises had to be made.

I walked into my workshop, glancing around. Terrariums greeted me with faint green glow illuminating my and worms and arachnids, little creatures so often underestimated, were crawling and flying inside, throwing themselves at the glass as they sensed my presence and tried to get closer.

With a few words and a gesture I calmed them down. Soon the time will come to let them all out. For now, they will keep me company. It was calming. In this place removed from the world of ordinary humans, there were no rules but mine. Everything around was mine and mine alone. I was in control.

That was the true temptation of magecraft: to define your own reality. To reject the norms imposed on you by society and create a world of your own design.

Magic doesn't bring happiness. But it can give you so much more.

I checked to see if the stray dog I captured the other day was still in place. A new batch of worms should hatch later today.

After making sure everything was fine, I made my way to the chitin chair in the center of a complex diagram near the north wall.

The official position might be gone, but the tools of the trade remained.

I sat in the chair and allowed worms to emerge from my flesh, becoming nerves that connected me to the mystery about to unravel.

People often underestimate how many there are insects in this world. Every one of us is surrounded by them at any given moment. They are under ground and in the walls. They fly around and hide in the corners which you never check.

And if a few of them were unusually large and have eyes far too similar to that of a human, well, it's not like you would ever see them.

Not even boundary fields were truly a barrier.

The world itself rejected those fragile realities, eroding them bit by bit by the force of elements, spirits and, yes, insects crawling everywhere they could.

Good maintenance would repair the damage, but there were always imperfections. Enough for a worm to slip in.

I looked at my town and saw...

* * *

A hall of broken mirrors reflecting distant places. I saw my own home in one of them, a dark building drowning in a grey sea of withering plants. I saw a hellish dimension filled with monstrosities I couldn't describe. I saw a beautiful dead garden of metal and stone. I saw many things.

All of them were broken.

Stained glass covered the floor, creating a pattern I couldn't read.

A beautiful woman wearing glass jewelry of many colors was standing in the middle of the surreal room. Glass birds were flying around her, each glowing softly. She directed them with movements of her bloodstained fingers.

I knew of her. Not by her name, for she kept it secret, but by her reputation. She was the one who brought the Grail into the city. She was the one who started it all.

The figurines were something more than simple animated toys. A mere glance invoked visions of forgotten lives. Fragments of memories, last thoughts of the dead.

She made a sudden gesture, and the birds shattered, their remnants joining the rest of the stained glass, though this batch were in a more familiar form of a summoning circle.

* * *

"I am not going to quit the tack team." Sophia Hess was standing before her mother who was sitting behind a table covered in arcane texts and papers of more mundane origin.

"You are going to do as I say," said Sophia's mother not lifting her eyes from her papers. "You know what's at stake."

"It is something I need," said Sophia folding her hands. "I need a space for myself. I'll perform better if I could unwind from time to time."

Sophia's mother looked at her.

"It is not just your life that is at stake here. We gambled everything on it. Death would be a mercy if _he_ were to be displeased by our actions."

Sophia was silent.

Her mother returned to the papers.

"You will study. You will train. You will attend school for now. If the Hebert girl were to do something foolish, that would benefit us. If not, at least you may glimpse something important. That is all you will do until the war begins."

Sophia nodded stiffly.

* * *

"I don't like it," said a middle-aged man holding an old rusted halberd. "Relying on someone to do the job."

"Isn't it the core of your philosophy, Colin?" asked a construct of metal, wood and bones vaguely resembling a dragon. The room they were in was too small for it, especially considering other constructs lying around, gutted, clearly scavenged for parts. So it was coiled around the man, its head resting on his shoulder. "You don't have to be strong yourself as long as you have something powerful by your side."

"Something I created. Something I know. Something I can trust. Summoning a Servant is different. A new agenda to deal with, new element to control."

"This situation as a whole is not something we can truly control. But we agreed that the prize is worth the risk."

"I know." Colin sighed. "It's just..."

"I understand."

The construct shifted, leaning closer to Colin. One of its limbs weaved itself around his waist.

"Soon," he said kissing the construct.

* * *

There was an old church in Brockton Bay that nobody visited. Standing on the hill, it was visible from nearly anywhere in the town, like a grim monument to the dying state of this place.

Many times various associations would talk about demolishing the old church to build something useful or to restore it to its former glory and put to use. Every time the movement would die down and the church would remain as it was.

Inside, darkness reigned, disturbed only by fickle light of candles maintained by a skeletal figure in priest robes who was uttering prayers to God that rang hollow.

It is not to say they weren't heard.

Dark figures coiled in the shadows just outside candlelight. Hypnotic, tempting. Dangerous.

Something was very wrong with Father Calvert, yet I could not quite understand what.

* * *

"So, there was something you wanted to show me?" A tall boy placed a cup of tea on a table before a young girl with brightly colored hair who was wearing trashy clothes.

"Yeah!" The girl ignored the cup and was rummaging through her bag covered in badges. "You see, I was hiding in the attic the other day and..."

"Wait, why were you hiding?" interrupted the boy. "Did Robert or whoever it is this time did something to you? Because if he did I..."

"No, no." The girl waved her hand dismissively. "I just wanted to, you know, get away from all of it. Find some quiet place, make it less quiet."

The boy looked at her for a few moments.

"You'll tell me if anything bad happened, right? You promised, Aisha."

Aisha sighed.

"I know, I know. I promise. Now, can we move on to something interesting?"

The boy nodded and Aisha continued.

"So, the attic was mostly boring. Like, there is a lot of old stuff there, but it's all just old broken things. I mean, come on, at least have a dignity to hide a body there or something... So, I was rummaging around, breaking stuff that remained whole somehow. So it won't disrupt that... thingy... you know, where things are the same."

"Pattern?"

"Yeah, that one. So, I was looking through all that trash and guess what I found?"

"Trash?"

"Well, yeah, but also this!" Aisha proudly displayed an old decayed book bound in light-brown leather.

The boy carefully took the book and opened it. A cloud of dust left the pages, causing him to cough.

"And what's so great about this book?" he asked after he could breathe again.

"It's about demon summoning!" said the girl. "Well, I am pretty sure it's about demon summoning, anyway. It's full of fancy words I don't know. Hence why I showed it to you."

"By which you mean..."

"Let's try it!"

* * *

"Modern academia is a bunch of bullshit, you know?" said a woman in a snake skin longcoat while carefully arranging various vials and bottles on a table.

"P-please." Another woman was standing still in the center of a summoning circle, her body connected to it with tubes with blood flowing in them.

"Shut up! I am doing the monologue." The first woman was now mixing liquids from her vials, paying close attention to exact doses. "Where was I? Ah, yes. The academia. So, here I was, going beyond the boundaries of modern magecraft, creating a perfect blend of Western and Eastern alchemical traditions. Obviously, the first candidate to receive a primary color as my title.

"I mean, really, who else was there to consider? Max? Yeah, right. Transmutation of metals is not exactly innovative. Sure, it's a good battle application, which is rare for alchemy, but he's an Enforcer material at best, not a proper scholar. Vasil? Nah, his homunculi don't hold a candle to Einzberns creations, nothing to celebrate there.

"So, you'd think the decision would be clear-cut, right?" The woman waited for an answer. Receiving none, she turned to the woman in circle. "I asked you, right?"

"R-right."

"Right. You'd think so, but no! Want to know what they 'gifted' me with?"

"Y-es?"

"Shut up! It was Orange! Orange! Can you imagine it? What a dirty color!" The woman placed a vial with the mixture above a small fire with no obvious source. "They say that my results are unstable, so they don't warrant higher reward. Of course they are unstable, you morons! They are prototypes! New ground! It's racism, that what it is, I tell you. Those snobs in their Clocktower still think being British is the best thing that can happen to you in your life. Just because I'm 'Asian' - they don't even know which part of Asia I am from - they think they can push me around. Well..."

The woman took the vial from the fire, gently swirled it, watching as the color of fluid changed from white to red, and spilled it into the circle. The liquid mixed with blood, running up the tubes. A few moments later pale blue fire consumed the woman inside the circle from inside out. She screamed, but not for long.

"I'll show them what a mistake they have made."

* * *

There was a similarity between the hall of broken mirrors and the garden of flesh. Both were places not belonging to this world, realities created and defined by minds not in synch with common sense.

Both were beautiful and alien.

But if the hall was dead and still, the garden was very much alive.

Countless limbs moved, veins pulsated, bones cracked forming new shapes in accord to incomprehensible design.

There was an ecosystem in place, flesh dying to be consumed by flesh still alive to give birth to new flesh.

In the center of the garden, there was a throne of bones with a vaguely humanoid figure occupying it. The figure was a part of the garden, a grotesque brain connected to the system by nerves and veins.

A girl around my age stood before the throne, trembling slightly.

"Don't be afraid, child," said the figure, voice resonating in the whole garden. "You are to be my agent in the world outside. You are to observe the war on my behalf and keep the Servant in line. It is a dangerous task, I won't lie, but you will have all help I can offer. You will be protected. No one in this town will be safer than you during the ritual."

"I know, Father. But..."

"I understand. I won't ask anything more from you ever again, and I wish I could spare you from what is to come, but this task must be completed. If only it started when I was young..."

"I... I understand." The girl looked straight at the figure. "I'll fulfill my duty to the family."

The figure smiled, skin cracking under the strain, blood instantly absorbed by pseudopodia.

"I am proud of you, Amy."

The girl nodded and left.

"Do you like what you see, little worm?" said the figure's voice right behind me. The hole I was hiding in grew teeth and consumed my flesh.

* * *

I winced as my connection broke. For a few minutes I just sat in my chair, letting my brain to adjust to normal senses replacing the visions.

My thoughts naturally drifted to Marquis. He was ancient. His power was undeniable. He was the one to design the Servants system. He was bold when he could afford to be, which was often as expected from someone who could claim such a title without being a Lord. He did nothing without a purpose. He wouldn't be alive today if he did.

So, what was his reason for allowing me to watch?

Was it a warning? He was known to not harm women and children, but perhaps he would make an exception should someone hurt his daughter.

Was it a bluff? Did he notice my presence halfway through the conversation and decided to make it look like he allowed it? To save face, to show that he is still in control of his enormous body.

If it were a sign of weakness...

I still couldn't do anything about it. Not right now, not without research and preparation.

And there were other factors in play that I had to keep in mind.

The woman with shattering birds, Hess and their games, the artificer, the foreign alchemist... The priest.

Each was dangerous in their own right, each could be the one to kill me.

At least there were some good news this time. Watching over the Laborns was just a paranoid precaution on my part. Their family had declined long before I was even born. I knew of them only because my mother taught me all about local magi as a part of preparations for my duties.

But with the Grail in play no possibility was too remote to consider. The Grail was a grand mystery entangled with Fate. Its influence guided us all on the path to the bloody ritual, ensuring there will be enough players around.

And it seemed one or two of the Laborns will enter the moonlit world soon.

Good. Novices who knew nothing about the rules outside of common sense would be no match for me. More, they could be manipulated, their Servant bound to serve my goals.

Surely they will appreciate an experienced magus showing up to explain what's going on and how to survive.

"Taylor!" My father's voice interrupted my musings.

With a sigh I absorbed worms back in my body and stood up. I stretched and worked out the cranks in my neck before heading out of my workshop.

Father waited for me at the stairs.

"Someone is here for you, at the door," he said.

I nodded.

His sight lingered at my clothes stained with mucus and he looked like he wanted to say something else, but in the end he turned away and walked away.

I went to open the door.

"Sa-?"

"Shh!" A blonde with a huge grin on her face placed a finger on my lips. "I go by Lisa now."

I grabbed her hand and threw her into the house, closing the door behind.

"Are you mad?" I asked vividly remembering the hall of broken mirrors and the image of my home in one of them. "What are you doing here?"

"Delivery service, patron of mine," she said shoving a long box she was carried with her at me.

I frowned.

"Couldn't you use a more discreet method?"

She shrugged.

"I would be surprised if anyone concerned didn't know you participated. Ensuring the safety of the package was most important, and I was the best you could afford for it."

I sighed. She was right, as usual. Going after the relic myself would have created far too many opportunities for my enemies to strike. Either at me or at my workshop. Even if they didn't succeed, they could have been altered to the nature of my future Servant.

As such, I was forced to rely on one of my family's allies. Sarah Livsey. Or...

"What did you call yourself?" I asked.

"Lisa," she said. "Lisa Wilbourn. Pretty name, right?"

"And why do you call yourself that?"

"Because I am here incognito, of course."

I looked at her very distinct hair and even more distinct grin.

She rolled her eyes.

"That's just for you. Others would see a mouthy little thing."

I shrugged. Everyone wore masks. It was more literal for illusionists.

"Well, I thank you and your family for the favor you did to me. Should I survive the venture..."

"I am staying," she said.

I frowned again and quickly grabbed her hand, searching for the same sensation that was present every time I was near I miscalculated and the Laborn kids weren't destined for it.

There was none, though it didn't say anything. Mana traces can be masked, and if anyone could mask the mark of a Master, it would be Livsey family. Perhaps I should strip her and search for the Seals visually... No, that posed the same problem with illusions.

"Taylor." I looked at her face. Her grin transformed into a gentle smile. "I know what you are thinking and no, I am not a Master. To you, I swear it."

"Why do you stay then?" I asked, still suspicious.

Her smile became sad.

"You remember how I became the heir of my family?"

"Yes."

She was a second child. Free of responsibilities of those of us chosen to carry on the family legacy. Some would say that such children were doomed to a life of mediocrity or becoming trophy spouses serving to advance their families' political ambitions. Such people weren't heirs.

Sarah was spared the pressure of duties and generations worth of ambitions.

That I envied her.

That is, until the day her brother committed suicide and the family crest was bestowed on her, nearly killing her too in the process.

The general consensus among the Association's rumor mongers was that she killed him or drove him to do it in order to usurp his place.

They didn't see her falling into my room in the academy in the dead of night and crying on my shoulder.

They didn't see her visiting me after my mother died, trying to cheer me up.

There was a bond between us forged by shared pain.

Nobody can be trusted... But perhaps I should mistrust her less than others.

I relaxed just a bit.

"So," she continued. "Since that day I was always thinking... Is it worth it? Magecraft, I mean."

I looked at her silently.

She sighed.

"We sacrifice normal lives for the sake of mysteries defying common sense. We place the advancement of magecraft above everything else, including our survival. And I want to know, is it worth it?"

"I am not sure how to answer that," I said eventually.

"I do. The Holy Grail War is the essence of magecraft. Seven magi place their lives on the line for the sake of a true miracle. By being there, by witnessing it with my own eyes, by being by your side, I think I will find the answer."

She smiled at me and I found myself smiling back.

"To be a magus is to walk with death. Nobody said you had to go alone."


	8. Lovecraft in Moscow

**.**

**Lovecraft in Moscow**

(Self Insert)

There is a little store near my house. Really more a stand than a proper store, it doesn't offer many products. However, its location makes it convenient to buy stuff I would be too lazy to go for otherwise.

The most notorious feature of the store is a cat occupying most of its space. While I don't really buy food there, the cat never fails to stand in my way and demand its tithe. Given its size, I do believe many lesser men have submitted to its will.

So, one day I went there to buy a pack a cigarets as I often do.

When I exited the store, I found myself in a middle of ruined Moscow. Crumbled building surrounded me. Silence reigned, for there was nothing to make a sound. There was no sharp edge in sight, as if the whole city was an ice castle melted under the cruel April sun.

Given time to process the situation, I would have certainly gone mad. My reason would have failed against the impossible situation, my sanity would have crumbled under the assault of sheer devastation I witnessed and the gibbering horror would be my solace.

However, the opportunity to find a sweet release in madness was stolen from me.

"Join us," said the voice behind me.

I turned to see a woman in a business suit and fedora. Behind her was a hole in the world. Alien sun was visible through it, casting woman's features in red light.

"We have an unlimited high-speed Internet connection," she continued. "And cookies."

I stared at her.

She stared back.

"Can I have your fedora?" I asked.

"No," she said.

And that was how I joined Cauldron.

Now if only I could remember Worm timeline...


	9. Minotaur

**.**

**Minotaur**

There was no exit.

Emma knew it all to well, but she couldn't give up.

She carefully looked around the corner. She didn't hear anything in minutes, but sound was traitorous in this confined place. Sometimes she couldn't hear anything deafened by her own steps and breath.

Nothing.

Nobody was waiting to catch her.

She continued walking down the narrow dark corridor to the door at the end.

Locked.

She kicked the door in frustration, but as always it remained closed. Locked doors couldn't be opened in this place, no matter how hard she tried.

She turned back. Ten steps in the dark to reach a room from where she came. Not that she could say it for certain. While every room in this place was unique in some way, it was hard to tell them apart. Bare gray walls, windows with only darkness outside, all locked. Furniture was sparse and provided no real cover, yet it was cluttered enough to obscure movement, forcing Emma to carefully step around it, wasting her time.

Some rooms looked like classrooms: rows of desks before a blackboard. Others resembled living room if one could imagine people spending their time sitting on chairs watching a window with nothing around to distract them from the darkness. Still others had an industrial look, with canisters of unknown origin placed around chaotically.

None looked like they were used by anyone.

Emma took a door to her left. She tried to follow the left hand rule of labyrinth exploring even though she knew it was futile. A few times in the past she ran without paying attention to directions, and now she was completely lost.

Not that it made a difference, really. There was no exit.

She heard a sound. A distant buzz like static.

She ran, stumbling over a chair only to get up, mindless of the pain in her leg, jumping over a desk to get to the door a few moments earlier, running through the dark corridor, hitting a wall when she suddenly reached a corner, turning, hoping she picked the right direction in her confusion, running again for the closed door, reaching for the handle hoping it won't be locked, opening the door...

She was greeted by a vision of white, contrasting so much with the gray walls normally surrounding her.

Bathroom. Urinals lined the wall opposite her, pipes were exposed, making the room seem similar to a cage.

Dead end.

She turned, covered her face in hands and ran back, but already she knew she has lost. First bugs landed on her skin, biting, stinging, chewing. As she continued to run, bugs increased in density, forming a swarm that enveloped her in a cloud of pain.

The swarm spoke to her in thousands distorted voices coming from everywhere around her, from under her skin, mixing with her thoughts.

_"Did you think you can escape me, Emma? Did you think I won't find you? Foolish girl. I will devour you bit by bit until nothing is left."_

Emma ran. Blind, she didn't know where she was going. More than once she fell, stumbling over the damned furniture, pushed around by clusters of bugs. Each time she stood up and searched for the next door to open trying not to expose her face and failing at it.

There was no escape, and each bite, each lost piece of flesh was driving the point home. It was only a matter of time before she gave up, unable to make another step.

But that moment was yet a few steps ahead. She reached the edge of the swarm. She wasn't running anymore, she wasn't even walking. Her legs felt numb, one eye couldn't see. She crawled to the next door at the end of a dark corridor. Foot by foot she dragged herself for a brief reprise from the hunt.

She reached for the door.

Locked.

Dead end.

She laid on her back, prepared to face her pursuer.

A dark distorted figure appeared before her. It was a girl covered in bugs which were obscuring her features and making the edges of her figure blurry. The girl walked closer to Emma, bugs covering the walls behind her, filling the air with maddening patterns.

"Hi, Emma," the girl said and a few flies flew from her mouth.

"T-Taylor," said Emma. She had troubles moving her tongue.

Taylor leaned over Emma and poked her nose.

"You are it," she said.

The swarm descended on Emma.

* * *

Flesh twisted. Bugs were still biting it, but they were the ones being devoured now.

Skin was the first thing to heal, enveloping the body in a loose cocoon. Shapes that could be internal organs given independent life or could be something else moved under the cover in agitation.

Different body parts weren't synchronized yet, muscles convulsed, inhuman forms reached in different directions, stretching the skin they shared.

Emma stood up, her face yet recognizable to the backing Taylor.

_"Hey, Taylor,"_ said dozens of mouths. _"I think it's my turn now."_

"Told you it was fun," said Taylor, smiling. The bugs disappeared into dark corners and cracks in the walls, leaving only a fragile girl behind. "Sophia always has the best ideas."


	10. Fragile

**.**

**Fragile**

Reality is given to us in our perception.

The world outside of our bodies may as well not be real and we'll never know because everything we feel is filtered through our senses.

The illusory nature of our existence is most evident with humans. We build models of them in our minds, puppets we assign traits and behavioral patterns based on our observations of them. But those models are always imperfect, something is always missing because we can never know other people the way we know ourselves. They always find ways to surprise us, to reveal traits we couldn't expect.

"You have no idea how to deal with people! All you can do is tear them apart!"

In the end, they all betray our expectations, revealing the mental models we build as fakes. Unless they die before they could do that, their images becoming more and more fake with time as memories shift each time we recall them, subtle changes occurring to simplify the models.

"I know more about her just by looking than you would after spending years in her company!"

There is, therefore, should be no difference between reality and imagination. Both merely add something to our mental worlds.

And yet the difference is evident. Reality that originates outside of our minds is more compelling. Or perhaps I should say it is more intrusive. It is hard to deny, and if the images conjured by our minds contradict it, they get crushed.

"Oh yeah? I take it getting people bitten by dogs is your idea of a warm welcome then?"

Or at least it was until the images in my mind became stronger than reality outside.

I looked around. Once, the room around me was a bar. I thought I remembered that. Now, it was a chapel with a bronze statue of me standing behind the altar which served as a battlefield between two women. One was a girl around my age, blonde and wearing a domino mask. Another was older and wore her hair in a tail with barely visible barbed wire in it. Both held five cards each, careful not to show them to the opponent. A pile of chips with my image on them was placed between them.

"It was a misunderstanding!" said the girl. "One that won't be repeated. Besides, it's not like you have a flawless record with team management judging by those marks on your neck."

"That's different! That was done with good intentions, and it's not something she would need to worry about."

The two glared at each other.

Did I conjure them from my mind? Did they originate outside of it? It didn't matter anymore.

"I noticed her first, I know about her and her powers more than you, and I can arrange a place for her to practice safely!" said the girl.

"And I have connections to actual psychiatrists rather than smug Thinkers not half as smart as they think they are!"

"Do I have a say in the matter?" I asked, curious.

"No!" they said in unison.

I nodded.

All things considered, my life was a pleasant dream.


	11. Short-circuited Identity

.

* * *

**Short-circuited Identity**

(Unknown Armies crossover)

_Dear Diary,_

_Today I tried to be cheerful in defiance of it all and make an acquaintance._

_By the end of the day I cried._

* * *

A girl stood before a house. She didn't know how she's got there or even who she was. When she tried to call upon her memory, darkness was all she saw.

There was a note in her hand. She read it.

_"Your task is to go into the house before you. You'll find a key in your pocket. It is your third time, and you've made a good progress so far. Concentrate on the room on the second floor, right next to the stairs. You need to find everything you can about the girl who lives here. You will not be noticed by anyone, but you can't touch or otherwise affect anyone, either. You can interact with inanimate objects as long as nobody sees you. The effect will wear off in about half an hour, at which point your memories will return. You have to get out of the house before it. Watch your clock._

_Good luck._

_Sincerely, You."_

The girl frowned. There was no way for her to tell if what the note claimed was true. Did she really do it to herself? If yes, why? Was it someone else pulling her strings for some unknown purpose?

She didn't know.

She rummaged through her pockets and found a pen. She wrote a few random words on the note. The color and handwriting matched. It didn't prove anything, of course, someone who could erase memories probably could do something as trivial as imitating her handwriting as well, but it reassured her somewhat.

Besides, there wasn't much else for her to do.

She walked forwards, fetching a key from her pocket, just as the note said. She couldn't enter at first. The key refused to enter the lock, no matter how hard she tried. Leaning against the door allowed her to hear someone walking nearby. She waited until whoever it was has finally walked away. This time, the door opened easily.

She entered and closed the door behind her. She walked around, looking for stairs. She heard the steps again and saw a boy returning to the living room with a glass of juice in his hand. He paid her no mind, walking around her as if on instinct. She reached out, almost touching him, but her hand stopped against her will.

She looked at it for a few long moments, but then shrugged it off and continued her search.

In the end, the room was easy to find. She looked around, fascinated at the small signs of life around. A book left opened on a desktop, clothes carelessly thrown at a chair, an old toy gathering dust by a window. Small things creating a pattern, a puzzle of someone's identity for her to solve.

She smiled. She didn't know who she was, but she knew she loved being here.

Carefully, afraid to disturb the ambiance of this place, she walked around the room, touching every little thing, opening a few books that were lying around and placing them back in their place.

Eventually she looked under a bed, finding an old battered trunk. She opened it and gasped in shock.

A mask of a frowning woman was looking back at her with empty eyes.

She caressed the the mask with reverend wonder and felt something stirring inside of her. She didn't know what it was, but one thing she knew for certain.

She wanted that mask.

Wanted more than anything.

* * *

_Dear Diary,_

_Today I tried to do everything they asked from me._

_I don't think my methods are working. A new approach is in order._

* * *

"What is the situation?" Piggot asked, rubbing her temples.

"At three a.m. today Shadow Stalker was sighted on an unsanctioned raid against the Empire. At seven a.m. today an imposter claiming to be her arrived at the Wards headquarters. Aegis and Vista attempted to capture her once her ruse was discovered, but she managed to escape. Her whereabouts, as well as whereabouts of the real Shadow Stalker are unknown."

"It was quite disturbing," Aegis said. "She looked almost like Sophia - and I don't mean the costume, she claimed someone has stolen it, - but there were enough discrepancies to tell them apart. It's like... I don't know, like those rumors of Russian attempts to clone capes. Even her power was similar, though obviously not the same."

"I would add that the disguise was almost perfect. It took me repeated observations of camera footage to confirm it was not really Shadow Stalker," Armsmaster said.

"All right," Piggot said tiredly. "So, what is the scenario here? An attempt to infiltrate the Wards? Coil would do that. Some deranged Stranger/Trump? That would be nice and simple."

"It appears that the imposter had access to classified and private information about the Wards, considering she was able to bypass the security and her comments during the confrontation. Whoever it is, whoever she is working for, she came prepared."

"Um..." Aegis said, frowning. "I think I may have information related to the case..."

"Speak up, then," Piggot said.

"Well..." Aegis said, shrinking under the gazes of his superiors. "Sophia said that someone was calling her family pretending to be her. Doing small talks. Telling them she would be late, or complaining about some made-up school troubles..."

"And you didn't report it?!" Piggot shouted.

"Sorry!" Aegis said, taking a step back and rising his hands protectively. "I know I should have, but she said it's no big deal, and, well, there was this situation with the Merchants..."

"I'll deal with you later." Piggor waved at him dismissively. "So, the calls were more likely practice to get the voice and mannerisms right. Shadow Stalker was aware of our Stranger, which likely means she went after her. Would explain her sighting. In that context, the connection with the Empire is troubling. If Kaiser is making this move... It's bold, and could very well indicate something big is about to happen.

"So, that would be our working hypothesis. Keep your eyes open to other possibilities, however."

"And your orders?" Armsmaster asked.

"Try to contact Shadow Stalker. Get her here to clarify the situation. If you contact the imposter instead, or if the true identity cannot be confirmed, pretend to buy into her ruse and get her into custody. And double patrols. We have to get to the bottom of it."

"Understood."

* * *

_Dear Diary,_

_Today I decided to learn more about them, so I can become a person they won't be able to affect. I think I am on the right track._

* * *

A girl stood before an electronics store. It was currently closed, but the light was still on for some reason. A girl could be seen sitting inside and looking at her clock.

She didn't know how she's got there or even who she was. When she tried to call upon her memory, darkness was all she saw.

There was a note in her hand. She read it.

_"You are Shadow Stalker. If you reach within yourself, you will find the ability to turn into a shadow state, which would allow you to pass through walls. Your task is to get inside the store before you. A clue to your identity lies within. Be aware that you only have about half an hour to do so before your memories are lost irrevocably. Be quick. You can't interact with people, and they won't see or hear you. You can interact with inanimate objects normally as long as nobody sees you._

_Good luck._

_Sincerely, You."_

The girl frowned. She didn't like that bullshit game at all.

She walked away from the store, going to the first person she saw and trying to grab them. Her hand fell short, and the person walked away, instinctively avoiding touching her.

She swore. At least some of the things in the note were true, it seems.

Including her shadow state, as she found a few moments later.

Well, whatever else could be said about the situation, she wasn't powerless.

It grated her to play into an unknown manipulator's hands, but it was probably the best course of action: go right to where they are, confront them, punch their undoubtedly smug face.

She smiled. A good plan.

She walked towards the store quietly humming with electricity.

* * *

_Dear Diary,_

_Today I forgot who I am. I don't think I want to remember._

* * *

AN: Taylor with Personomancy, a magick of identity.

Spells used:

**The Mirror Crack'd**  
Cost: 4 minor charges  
Effect: Two things happen to a person under the influence of this spell. First, she forgets herself. For a number of minutes equal to the caster's roll, she has complete amnesia. She retains all her skills, but often forgets she has them if they're not immediately applicable. This instant amnesia is a rank-8 Self check.

Furthermore, every living creature around her ignores the target of the spell. (Clockworks and demons are exempt from this effect.) She cannot be seen, heard or felt. Any attack she attempts on those who cannot perceive her simply fails: her arm loses strength before she can fire the gun, stick the knife, or pull the grenade pin. She can interact with the inanimate normally, unless someone else is watching. As long as she is beheld, even on a camera, her actions cannot influence her environment; she can't pick anything up or move anything, not even open a door. Becoming aware of this "ghost nature" is a rank-3 Isolation check.

Usually this is used on an attacker. After all, while he's under the influence of the spell he can't hurt or impede you and doesn't even remember that he's mad at you. A few thespians have cast it on themselves when they want to move through an area unnoticed, but doing so requires some preparation, usually in the form of notes or photographs describing the goal or mission that the caster forgets under the amnesia.

**Identity Crisis**  
Cost: 3 significant charges  
Effect: You must pretend to place an imaginary mask on the victim of this spell for it to work. For the next twenty-four hours, the victim appears, in a subtly irrational fashion, to be an impostor to all who know him. Nothing he can do completely convinces them otherwise; a nagging doubt always remains. The extent to which they believe he is an impostor depends on context. A spouse is likely to merely behave edgily, a security guard deny access, a bodyguard (especially one who knows about magick) arrest or even shoot. Obviously, this spell causes a lot of stress checks.

**Mask of the Hero** (A custom spell, based on Mask of the Man and Mask of the God)  
Cost: 3 significant charges  
Effect: Infuses a mask of the target cape with power, allowing the adept to use said cape's powers as if her own as long as she wears the mask.

An original mask that was used by the victim must be the target of this spell. If the victim used more than one mask, any of them would do as long as they don't have significant differences in design. If they do, the most recent one must be used.

Some powers may not be accessible with this spell. The rule of thumb is that the highest power rating of the victim must be lower or equal to the decimal number of the Personomancy skill (for example, Brute 3 power can be imitated by adepts with Personomancy 30% and above). However, since ratings are not absolute measures of power, the GM has the final word on the matter.

While the mask is on, the adept can't use the Personomancy skill, only cape powers infused into the mask.

If you ever encounter your target when wearing this mask, it permanently loses its power.

Only the Personamancer who creates it can reliably use this artifact. If another Personamancer puts it on, it functions for about ten minutes and then loses all its power.


	12. Rats in the Labyrinth

.

**Rats in the Labyrinth**

(Unknown Armies crossover)

"It's not about the people, it was never about the people. We're too small to matter, in the end. It's about the city. Everything is connected. A woman crosses a road, causing a driver to slow down, causing him to be late for job, causing more and more ripples, all combining into a pattern too great for us to see. The city is a dragon, and the dragon is mad. It needs a rider."

"Whatever you say, boss," Bakuda said, setting off a bomb.

Two women watched the destruction.

Taylor felt a surge of power.

The city will be hers.

* * *

AN: A drabble, exactly 100 words not counting the title. Taylor is an Urbanomancer this time, an adept with a power over cities and crowds who gains power by altering the city in some way. Like by exploding parts of it (being an architect and building stuff is more reliable source of power, but also requires being in the right position to do it).


	13. Over the Edge

.

**Over the Edge**

"What else did you expect?" Skitter asked in a toneless voice. Her posture, too, betrayed no emotion. Amanda wondered if there even was anything inside the chitin costume, or if the thousands butterflies crawling all over the walls, watching the scenes with eye-like patterns on their wings were the ones in charge, with the costume merely serving as their avatar.

She realized that she became lost in thoughts again and tried to focus on the situation at hand.

"Not... not that," she said, clearing her throat which was sore from screams. "I thought... I thought you were good."

Skitter laughed in the same toneless voice, now amplified by the buzz of various insects filling the air. Amanda jumped a little. So distracted she was by the butterflies, she forgot about the other creatures.

Two other people present in the room - a man and a woman - certainly didn't. Standing on their knees, bound and gagged with spider silk, they shivered each time a fly flew past them.

"Where were you last few months? Locked in a dark room?" Amanda flinched. "Ah, yes, you were. Well, things have changed since last you were likely to see me. Running a city is not easy, as you may imagine. The pressure from the Protectorate, gangs trying to get a slice of the territory... Then there is a matter of supplies. They have to come from somewhere, and it's easier for the government to relocate the people rather than support a broken and dying city. At first we hoped the portal would be the answer to that. If Brockton Bay became an entrance to another world, free from Endbringers and full of resources, that could have helped us to... come to an understanding with the Protectorate and clear the city from the worst villains. Faultline opening portals in other places over the country rendered the point mostly moot, though. Oh, we could get the resources from there, but it's a slow process, and people were dying.

"So we compromised. Invited in the villains willing to work under us - mercenary companies looking for a safe haven, drug cartels wanting an easy route, criminals who decided to lay low for a time. Blasto was a godsend - he managed to make us too costly to attack.

"Naturally, a change in population required a change in administration. Once I might have dreamed of making the city a better, brighter place, of fixing problems the Protectorate didn't dare to touch. Now I would content myself with the knowledge that the city is functioning, if not precisely in a way I would like.

"And now you ask to join me. Is it weir of me to expect you to do what you are told? I can't afford liabilities, and as a member of my organization, you would be expected to do similar things often enough."

"But you saved me." Amanda stared at the unmoving costume, trying to find some glint of emotion. Futile. Only the swarm of insects was animated, becoming agitated with each word said by the villain, as if some great beast with myriad bodies was stirring in its sleep.

"This city has very few laws. One of them is that everyone should come here freely and can leave freely unless they owe me. They broke the law."

"It isn't right."

"This is the only justice I have," Skitter said. Or, rather, the swarm said, for the human voice was silent.

"And... and if I don't?"

"You would be left alone, free to fend for yourself."

Amanda shuddered. Slowly she reached for the gun in Skitter's hand, took it and pointed at the kneeling man.

Skitter watched her impassively.

She closed her eyes.

* * *

AN: So, yeah, Dinah's prophecy came true, and Taylor became more mean. Also, Brockton Bay is now Roanapur/Al Amarja. Cookies for anyone who got the title reference.


	14. I Feel Better with My Fingertips Cut Off

.

**I Feel Better with My Fingertips Cut Off**

(Uzumaki crossover)

I stared down at my desk in World Studies class. It was covered in carefully, almost masterfully carved spirals. I spent a few moments just looking at them, trying to fathom the meaning of what I saw. Then I looked at Emma, who was sitting with Sophia and Madison, as usual, and, sure enough, she was looking at me, grinning.

I rubbed my temples. I couldn't understand her anymore. I mean, I guess it wasn't anything new. I couldn't understand why my best friend would turn on me over a summer and start a bullying campaign that lasted for more than a year, but that at least was... theoretically comprehensible. I mean, I wasn't the only victim of bullying ever. I wasn't even the only one bullied by her former friend. I did a study on the subject.

But this new development... I mean, the spirals weren't humiliating, they didn't somehow hurt my feelings, they weren't a reference to a shared memory - Emma's favorite torture tool until recently. They just... were. There were spirals on my desk, and hell if I knew what that meant.

At least other incidents involving spirals fit into a preexisting pattern. Glue on my chair. Simple. Would have been pretty humiliating if I didn't notice it. And the spiral form is pretty natural to make when you want to mark a spot with a liquid. Paint on my clothes. Also simple. The spiral shape wasn't as intuitive that time, but still, ruined clothes, made my life just that much more miserable. Paint on my textbooks. Again, I got it. Yeah, that each page was marked with a spiral was a bit weird, had to take a lot of effort, but they were going out of their way to torment me as it was, so fine, they were "go hard or go home" bullies.

Now, though? Now I couldn't deny any longer that there was a new pattern in Emma's actions. And that strangely bothered me. Before, things were... well, not fine, but tolerable. I had plans for the future, I knew I could endure it. School was hell, but there was a light at the end of the tunnel to look forward to, and I mapped my course there. There was a certainty to my life. Now it was gone, and that scared me.

With each swirl of the spirals I traced with my eyes I felt a sense of foreboding growing inside of me. A feeling that was not helped by Emma's asking finally arrived Mister Gladly if she could change places with me. He granted the request. Of course.

At first I tried to convince myself that it was all some kind of setup for a new prank. Spirals were probably just meant to put me off balance, so Sophia and Madison would have more openings for my throat. But no, when I sat down, Madison merely nodded while Sophia didn't pay me even that much attention, looking at Emma instead. Madison and I joined her a moment later. An awkward silence settled between us as we watched Emma tracing the spirals with her fingers. I thought they looked dirty.

Mister Gladly had to call her name trice during the roll call before she answered. He looked like he wanted to say something to her, but at the last moment he coughed and returned to his list.

"Veder, Gregory," he said, nearing the end of the list. "Is Mister Veder present?"

"Why does he even bother?" Madison whispered at me. "It's not raining today."

I just stared at her for a few moments. Did she just talk to me? Without insults? Including me in a class joke?

I noticed her smiling nervously, her eyes searching something in my face.

"Right," I finally managed to whisper back. "At this point he may as well just look out the window to see if Greg is inside." I smiled. It was so lame.

Madison smiled back, more natural this time.

"Greg the Slug," Sophia scoffed, barely bothering to lower her voice. "Even when it's raining he's always late. You two would make a good couple, Hebert. Two losers that shouldn't be coming to school to begin with, since you clearly... ah... lose at life."

At least Sophia was acting the same as before, though her insults were normally better.

I saw a look of horror on her face and caught myself smiling at her. I returned the look of horror with my own. That seemed to calm her down.

The rest of the class I spent watching Emma tracing the spirals over and over with her fingers while Mister Gladly was bumbling something in the background. I doubt Sophia or Madison paid him much more attention than me.

* * *

What happened the next day I blame on my exhaustion caused by worry and heavy thoughts about Emma. Normally, I was very cautious at school. It was only natural, considering what I had to put up with. I knew the building inside out, I knew all of the routes to every classroom, every exit and every hiding spot. I didn't always manage to avoid my tormentors, but I sure didn't make the whole business easy for them, either. Certainly, I wasn't so foolish as to be caught by them at a locker. I mean, stuffing someone inside a locker is one of those pranks media shows constantly thinking it amusing for some bizarre reason. No way would I fall for it.

So normally I approached the locker only when I was absolutely sure my tormentors or their most frequent lackeys weren't in the position to fuck with me before I could notice their approach. And naturally I was suspicious about the contents of my locker as well, especially after Emma has stolen my mother's flute, showing she had no problems with breaking inside the locker.

That day, however, I was distracted and not entirely there. It is the only way to explain why I didn't recoil in horror the instant I opened the locker and saw Emma's deformed body coiled inside like some kind of grotesque Jack-In-The-Box.

As it is, she managed to grab and drag me inside before I could do anything., shutting the door and swirling around me.

My memory is hazy about what happened next, in the dark. I think she was saying something to me, whispering words that are lost to me now. Perhaps they were a warning of things yet to come, perhaps they were merely ramblings of the insane, perhaps something more sinister.

I think I tried to reason with her, or perhaps I begged her to let me go, even as I felt her licking my fingers, her thin and unusually sharp tongue tracing my fingertips.

When I felt her tongue entering my ear, I screamed. That I remember. A raw, wild scream signifying the remnants of logic and reason left to me breaking apart, leaving nothing behind but the swirls of spiral flesh.

The scream that lasted an eternity until it was broken by a sudden light.

The locker was opened.

I was saved by Sophia, of all people. I grabbed her hand and didn't let go until she separated Emma from me, fighting with a hissing swirling monstrosity for each inch of coiled flesh.

Finally, it was over. Sophia managed to subdue Emma, tie her up with a zip tie (I didn't want to know why she carried one) and pry herself off me. She ordered someone to call the PRT and settled to watch over Emma, who was still struggling against her bonds, while I sat in shock, looking inside the locker at the bloody spirals drawn on its walls, mesmerized.

The PRT took Emma away somewhere, never to be seen again. I was questioned once I was in a condition to talk, and later sent to a counselor, paid for by the PRT in an uncharacteristic fit of charity. I was told that Emma was a parahuman who has suffered a monstrous trigger event that warped her mind and body. I was assured that such events were extremely rare and that it was exceedingly unlikely I would ever deal with anything like that ever again.

But, of course, it was only the first of my many encounters with the spiral curse.


	15. I Feel Better with Fingertips Cut Off 2

AN: Another drabble. Again, 100 words exactly, not counting the title.

* * *

**I Feel Better with My Fingertips Cut Off 2**

I was very proud of my hair, but I don't think they were very proud of me. So they grew long and coiled into beautiful spirals, entrancing everyone who looked at them. They dragged me around to show themselves to more people, so all would look at them and love them. I cut them off when they started to drain my life, causing me to wither so they could bloom. I threw them away, but they didn't die. They still grow in my backyard, enthralling careless people sometimes. The PRT takes care of them.

They make for a beautiful garden.


	16. I Feel Better with Fingertips Cut Off 3

.

**I Feel Better with My Fingertips Cut Off 3**

Abominations against nature or no, it was autumn, which meant gathering and burning fallen leaves on school territory. Winslow had a fine tradition of boys smoking those leaves. Normally only younger boys who didn't know how to get real cigarettes did it, but this year there was something unusual in the smoke that all could feel, so the number of improvised smokers increased. Even a few girls joined, and I was among them.

After the incident with Emma the bullying has stopped, and people even apologized to me, quick to blame their actions on being enthralled by a monster. That didn't last long, of course, given my own incident with hairs, after which people started avoiding me. It was still better than before, isolation was much preferable to harassment, yet I still welcomed the invitation to join the smoking circle, taking it as a sign of being accepted, of finally putting the events of the recent times behind me.

And so I was spending the warm afternoons chatting about nonsense with people I barely knew but looked forward to know better and watching the smoke rising to the skies in lazy spirals. I half-suspected that I was invited on account of being very good at noticing when teachers were nearby - a former experience paying off - but I didn't mind much.

The smoking pastime proved to be so popular around school that one of the boys - Sparky, the drummer - even gathered a bunch of leaves, took them somewhere and dried properly, so we could have a makeshift cigarettes.

He was also the one to introduce our company to our new lair: an abandoned institute which was doing something connected to brain research before it was shut down when the Tinker in charge of the institute went insane. The building was actually fairly new, built only a decade or so ago, but already it had that ancient feel common to abandoned buildings.

We've spent a lot of time exploring it, not expecting but hoping to find something curious. The building was mostly empty, however, with an exceptions of a pile of yellowed journals carelessly left behind in a hall. They were written in scientific jargon, so we couldn't make out what they were about.

Julia also claimed she has found a jar with pieces of decayed brain inside, but she refused to show it to us, so we called her a big fat liar, and she jokingly scowled at us and threatened to take over the school with her telepathic brain jar.

Those were probably the best days of my life ever since Emma's betrayal, so naturally they soon have come to an end.

The first sign of troubles was the exhaustion of Sparky's leaves supplies. Brendon - a member of Sparky's band - jokingly suggested we should upgrade to weed in preparation for our college years, but in the end we settled on normal cigarettes. They weren't really the same. Whatever charm the fallen leaves had, they lacked, and half of our group couldn't stand the taste or even the smell of them. We still were hanging out together, of course, it would be stupid to part ways because of cigarettes of all things, but something has been lost, and we started to slowly drift apart. Amanda and John weren't showing up on our gatherings half the time, Anton and Will often played some card game instead of chatting with us. The dynamic of the group was changing, and not for the better.

Sparky sensed it too, despite being rather spacey normally, and one day announced at school that he had made more makeshift cigarettes. That got some attention, and our group gathered in the lair in full - a rare occasion on those days.

He gave each of us a handmade cigarette and lighted it up personally, as if following some ritual. Finally, he lighted his own cigarette and inhaled the smoke deeply. All of us followed his example as one.

"That's... new," Julia said, coughing.

I agreed. The taste wasn't anything like normal burning leaves or commercial cigarettes. It was... I am not sure how to describe it. Rich. Powerful. To die for.

"You aren't working with the Merchants, are you?" Brendon asked in a light tone.

Sparky laughed.

"Nah, just got a job clearing fallen leaves from old folks' backyards. I don't have much, actually, most people cleared the leaves already. Still, there is some, and I am even paid for it."

A conversation took a joking turn after that, people were having fun, and for a moment the changing dynamic was reversed, we returned to the days when our group has been just formed. I smiled.

I didn't pay much attention to the conversation itself, though, as I was struggling with my hair, which were acting up. It was probably time to cut them again.

"What would you do with a cigarette, anyway?" I murmured.

I was distracted from my struggle by a series of violent coughs.

I looked up and saw Julia lying on the floor, coughing her lungs out. Puffs of thick black smoke emerged from her mouth with each cough, more than human's lungs had any right to contain.

"Shit!" Brendon shouted, taking a step to her, but he, too, started to cough and soon joined her on the floor, along with the rest of the group, except me and Sparky.

I stood in shock until the cigarette started to burn my fingers. I dropped it and said, "What the hell?!" Not my best moment.

I took an uncertain step to the lying figures, but Sparky put a hand on my shoulder.

"Let them be," he said. "It's going to get better."

"What," I said. "What the hell are you talking about? We should call an ambulance or... or at least get them out of here, get some fresh air!"

His hand squeezed my shoulder harder.

"No," he said, smiling. Even though he wasn't smoking, a puff of smoke emerged from his mouth with each word he spoke. "Look, it's fine. It happened to me, too, and I am fine. Just relax, take a smoke, let it wash over you. You'll feel better, trust me."

"Let go off me!" I shouted, breaking his hold and taking a step back. "What's wrong with you?!"

"What's wrong with me?" he said, smoke swirling around him, mixing with the smoke coughed out by the rest of the group, forming spirals. "What's wrong with you? Don't you want to hang out with us? Don't you want to have fun? Come on, Taylor, it's just a small episode that's going to pass really quick. Nothing to worry about."

The smoke was filling the room, tendrils reaching to me, trying to touch my face, my nostrils, my mouth. I ran. Not towards the exit, for it was blocked by the smoke, but deeper into the building. Down. Foolish of me, but any direction was better than being there.

I ran through the empty halls, decayed corridors littered with broken glass, rooms full of swirling dusk that made me scream, for I would mistake it for smoke, and stairwells spiraling down and down.

I opened one more door, preparing to run inside if I could see a door inside or turn back if it was a dead end. I screamed then, not because of the horrors I knew, but because of a new one. Before me a plant was covering a wall, a plant with leaves cut off and pale white flowers about to bloom. And at the root of the plant I saw two bodies, their flesh broken and twisted by the grows of vines, their eyes looking at me, their mouths opened in silent cries, for their lungs were consumed by the plant, their voices stolen to feed it.

Even when my scream was cut short by the lack of breath, I just stood there, frozen in place, unable to move, unable to think, staring at the twisted faces, at the hands clawing the floor, trying and failing to communicate something, bound as they were by the plant.

I knew those people from somewhere. I saw them once or twice before.

"You... you are Sparky's parents," I whispered.

Before my eyes an eyeball of Sparky's father was pushed out by a growing sprout, bringing it closer to me, as if the man was trying to better see me.

I giggled. Then I laughed, a broken sound of a broken mind. I thought my hair would appreciate a company, and laughed more.

"Taylor..." I heard someone whispering behind me.

I spun around and saw a cloud of thick black smoke enveloping the corridor, spirals twisting and turning inside of it. In the smoke I saw faces of our group: Sparky, Brendon, Julia, Anton, Will, John, Amanda, and others. They saw me too. They called for me.

I inhaled, ready to scream again, but the smoke rushed at me, inside me, filling my lungs, filling my self.

A hazy dream took me.

When I woke up, the building was completely empty safe for a withered plant on one of the walls and a few whiffs of lingering smoke.

That was the end of that autumn.

* * *

AN: True story here, my first ever smoke was a fallen maple leave, back when I was ten or so. It wasn't actually great. Wasn't much of anything, really. And, just to be clear, it most definitely didn't turn me into a cloud of sapient smoke seeking to hijack the bodies of the living.

The brain institute with a pile of old journals is also based on a real place, though in reality it was closed for much more mundane reasons. We didn't really explore it, though, because there were some weird fumes inside.


	17. Universal Perception Solvent

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**Universal Perception Solvent**

(Over the Edge RPG crossover)

"Dirty, dirty, dirty!" John Doe shouted, futility trying to wipe out dirty strains from the plastic bag he wore on his head. I knew that his whole body was covered in plastic under the heavy trenchcoat. Not that it stopped him from complaining. "How can you stand this world?"

"I can't," I said, watching smoke of my cigarette being beaten down by the rain.

"I mean the physical world in general," he said. "It's just so... dirty. Disgusting, disturbing, unbearable! Ugh!" I was convinced he talked so much to push the bag away from his lips, preventing them from coming in contact with a small breathing hole. Having no soul brought me a powerful ally, but sometimes I thought it wasn't worth it.

"Snap out of it!" I barked. "We get the job done, get the damn doll, then I'll kill you, all right?"

"Ja," he said, hugging himself and trying to calm down. "Ja, you are right." He pointed his finger at me. "But no more delays! No more last jobs!"

"Si, si, si," I said, waving at him. He recoiled from the cigarette. "Once I have my way out of this world, you'll get yours."

"Boss, you do realize it's probably a trap?" Amanda, a third and final member of our group, asked. She wore a pristine business suit, the only frivolity being a loose blue velvet noose around her neck. In her hands she held one of those antique cameras with a membrane. "I mean, Ratty was ditching us for a month, and now suddenly he calls out of the blue and arranges the meeting on a rainy night of all times. He's paranoid at best."

"Da," I said, sighing and exhaling another cloud of quickly dissipating smoke. "But he's out best lead to the doll. Not much choice but to meet him. Just be prepared for troubles."

She nodded.

I threw away the cigarette and started a new one. Doing so with one hand still was a bit awkward, but at least I wasn't dropping the lighter now. Afterwards, I turned to face Dirty Donkey - a rundown bar which owed its name to an old sign with something vaguely resembling a donkey being crudely drawn on it. It was hard to make out even in daylight since the sign was almost completely covered in dirt.

"Let's get this over with," I said.

"One moment," Amanda said, rising her camera to her eyes and taking a shot of the bar. A few thin cracks appeared on its facade, and the rust on the bars covering its windows spread by a centimeter. Amanda smiled. Her greatest desire was to capture the end of the world on her camera, and she took a proactive approach to accomplish her goal. I suspected that desire was the reason why she broke up with CIA.

John whimpered, and Amanda's smile grew wider.

Sometimes I wondered what it said about me that she would willingly join my crew...

_Damn it._

I rummaged through my pockets and fetched a black-and-white capsule, which I swallowed dry. Then I stood there for a few moments, eyes closed, mind shut off. Feeling the drug kicking in, I allowed myself to relax a bit.

Right, as I was saying, Amanda has proved to be a valuable ally despite her somewhat distasteful hobby, perfectly justifying my decision to work with her.

"Okay," I said, fixing a formal brown noose on my neck. "Let's do it."

My companions nodded, and I marched into the bar.

The inside of Dirty Donkey was exactly what I expected. An indifferent bartender smearing dirt over glasses, a few toughs conversing quietly between themselves, a bunch of low-lives scattered across the bar, drinking.

Nobody looked at our company as we entered. It wasn't a place where paying too much attention to people was wise (just enough to assert if they were a threat to you), and the good folks of the Great Men Barrio knew it very well.

Ratty was easy to spot, sitting as he was in arm's reach of the door. Despite his name, he was a large man with an enormous beard. Normally he took care of his appearance, trying to project a suave air befitting an information broker, but now he was rather disheveled. His clothes looked like he slept in them, his beard was untended, the the knot of his noose was under his ear. He noticed us too, and stared at me, visibly frozen.

I slipped into a chair against his, smiling when Amanda moved another chair to cut Ratty's escape route. He was always not half as smart as he wanted to be.

Ratty gulped and failed to smile.

"Ah, Miss Herbert, always a pleasure to see you," he said, nervously playing with a bottle of beer and forgetting to keep his thumb over the bottle's mouth.

"Let's get to business," I said curtly.

"Ah, yes, business. Hai, of course," he said, looking around, never making eye contact with me. "First, I must apologize for the delay... I know you are a busy woman, what with all of the... business going on..."

"Do you want to get necrosis that badly?" I asked. Amanda pretended to take a shot of him, making a clicking noise with her tongue.

He froze again.

"Where's the doll, Ratty?"

"The doll..." he said, and there was naked fear in his voice. "It's... It's not with me. I don't have it. A-another buyer came up, and, well, you know how it is..."

"Who?" I didn't believe him for a moment.

He gulped. "Glorious Lords."

"Lucies?" I asked incredulously. "What the hell Satanists of all people would want with it?"

"I don't know!" He was trembling. "They... they knew I had it, they knew you wanted it. P-please, they threatened me.

I smiled. "I don't blame you, Ratty."

"Really?" he asked.

"Da," I said. "I know of them. Violence and black magic, it's understandable why someone would break. Now, just tell me what else they asked from you."

"Just... just that I keep my mouth shut about the doll, and that I bring you here on the first rainy night, at eleven o'clock."

I looked at John.

"One minute before eleven," he said gloomily.

"Okay," I said, then inhaled smoke from my cigarette and exhaled it from the stump that was in place of my left arm. A phantom limb solidified, piercing Ratty's chest and squeezing his heart. "As I said, I don't blame you," I said to a dying man. "But a rep's a rep. Can't allow people to cross me and live."

The deed done, I stood up and nodded towards the exit. John and Amanda followed me.

We found a cover in a nearby alley just in time before the building exploded, sending us to the ground. Amanda covered her camera with her body, hugging it like a baby, while John withered in dirt and debris, moaning about the imperfections of this world.

Naturally, that was when five thugs with distinct deformities of flesh that was the mark of their gang. I deflected the first blow of a baseball bat with my phantom arm which was quickly losing substance under the rain. I rolled to the side and reached for my thirty-eight hidden carefully under the jacket. Gun prohibition was one of the very few consistently enforced laws on Al Amarja, but then, so was the law against making or carrying explosives. If there was a time to get on bad side of the Peace Force, it was now.

I pulled the gun out and shot in the general direction of the thug who tried to hit me. Naturally, I missed, but she recoiled all the same, giving me a few precious moment to take a better position.

"She has a gun!" someone shouted.

John screamed, and a cold light briefly illuminated the alley. I scrambled on my fit, trying to get away from him before he could turn me along with everyone else into salt pillars, but the light went out suddenly and with no effects.

_Crystal traps,_ I thought as I turned around and shot my thug in the chest. She fell, her scream turning into desperate coughs as the wound sucked air from her lungs.

The thugs must have carried crystal pendants or something on them to trap John's magic in infinite astral reflections. It was becoming more and more obvious that the Glorious Lords were just middle men, hired by someone who actually knew shit.

Pressing my back against a wall for balance, I fired two more times, missing once, hitting a thug closest into a shoulder with the second shot.

Between my shooting and their hesitation to approach John after his light show, failed or not, things were looking up for us.

"Drop your weapon!" a man shouted. I looked in the direction of the voice and saw one of the thugs holding Amanda in a grip, knife pressed to her neck. She was still hugging her camera, and there were visible bruises on her face.

I looked at John, but he was kneeling on the ground, hugging himself and moaning, "Dirty, dirty, dirty." No help here.

"Drop it, I said!" the thug shouted. He sounded scared, which was bad for someone holding a knife so close to the skin of my companion.

I shrugged and threw the gun to the side. He watched it fly, which gave Amanda enough an opportunity to do something fast and brutal.

The gun was in her hand now, another hand was twisting the thug's hand, pushing him to the ground. The camera hung on her back, leather belt tightly wound around her neck.

"Wanted to ruin my camera, did you?" she hissed. "This thing will outlive all of you! Though now a lot of people have a chance to outlive you."

I looked at the only two still standing thugs, smiled and reached into my pocket. They looked at each other and ran. So much for loyalty.

I took out another cigarette and lighted it, inhaling the smoke a few times and allowing the adrenaline to rush over me.

"We need to interrogate him, you know," I said to Amanda eventually before starting to search for my gun. "And we need to get out of here before the Peace Force arrives."

"Si, si," she said. "It won't take long, and I'll keep him alive."

The thug screamed.

"Dirty, dirty, dirty," John Doe continued to moan.

"Snap out of it," I said to him. "We have one last job to do."

* * *

AN: Post-canon Taylor finds herself on Al Amarja, a home of no less than twelve conspiracies each of which controls the world. As well as other surreal dangers.

She's on zoroaster (or zorro for short), a drug causing its users to perceive the world entirely in black-and-white when it comes to morality. All of your choices are perfectly right, all who object to your actions are obviously wrong. Need a bit of clarity in your life? Buy zorro! Only 2$ per hit.


	18. Witch's Apprentices

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**Witch's Apprentices**

(Umineko no Naku Koro ni crossover)

Two girls were sitting in an impossible room, drinking tea.

"How about that? Turning your blood into blades to slice your opponents?"

"Would probably kill me."

"Vampire powers? Bonuses for drinking up a parahuman."

"You're on a blood theme, aren't you? Couldn't you just give me a cool non-creepy, non-self-destructive power?"

"No."

"Sometimes I suspect you don't want to make it easy for me."

"I'm the Witch of Miracles-"

"Plot Contrivances." Taylor interrupted her.

"If you want to be technical about it." Berkastel rolled her eyes. "I'm not, however, the Witch of Boring as Hell Plot. That would be Battler."

* * *

AN: Another drabble. 100 words exactly. I always thought Umineko witches represented various narrative devices, and giving Taylor new cool powers clearly falls under Berkastel's domain.


	19. Hunters and Haunted

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**Hunters and Haunted**

(Higanbana no Saku Yoru ni crossover)

"Hey! Stop it already!" Emma said to two boys who were throwing Greg's notebook between them and forcing him to try getting it back. "First day at school and you are already at it?"

"We are just playing around," one of the boys said, smiling at Emma broadly.

"Yeah," another said. "Greg here is our buddy and we are having fun. Right, Greg?" He gave Greg a push.

"R-right," Greg said, glaring at the boys with a pitiful expression on his face.

Emma frowned. She knew they were lying, of course, but she also knew calling them on that would do no good. Greg was often bullied by those two, but he refused to admit it, as if acknowledging the problem was what would make it real. As long as he was going along with the charade, he could pretend he truly was having a bit of fun with his friends, even if in truth it was the opposite.

"Well, stop anyway," Emma said. "He'd be late for the photo if you don't."

The boys shrugged and gave Greg his notebook back.

"Catch with you later," one of them said, slapping Greg hard on his back.

Greg winced. He looked at his battered notebook, then at Emma. He opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it, turned and hurried away.

Emma sighed and followed him to her homeroom class at a more sedated pace.

"Why do you even bother?" Madison, who was with Emma but remained silent during the scene, asked. "I mean, it's Greg. He gives me the creeps. I bet he's going to rummage through your trash after that."

Emma shrugged. She didn't care much for Greg, truth be told, but bullying always bothered her for some reason. Seeing pitiful faces of bullied victims stirred something inside of her for which she had no name, and she didn't like the sensation. So, while she didn't go out of her way to prevent bullying, she would attempt to stop if when it happened before her eyes. It's not like it was even that hard for her. She was attractive, popular. Both boys and girls listened to her and would stop whatever pranks they planned were she to ask. They would return to their activities the moment she was away, of course, but that didn't bother Emma as much. It's not like she could do much about it, right? And what she did was already worthy of praise. In fact, her attitude has increased her popularity, for she was known as someone who would stand up for the bullied kids.

Madison snapped her fingers before Emma's face. "Hello, Earth to Emma. Are you still here?"

Emma pretended to glare at Madison, but smiled almost immediately. "Yeah, yeah, just thinking."

"Hoh?" Madison said. "How does it work for you?"

"Very well," Emma said solemnly. "You should try it sometime, too."

They giggled and hurried to their class.

* * *

Once all the kids gathered in the classroom, they were ushered back out from the school, to the backyard where the yearly photo would be taken against the background of old willows that were growing there since the foundation of the school.

It was unusually chilly for this time of year outside, so some kids complained, but Emma didn't mind. Despite the chilly wind, it was a sunny day, and she basked in the light while chatting with Madison about many meaningless things.

The photographer - a young blonde woman wearing a weird purple dress, with freckles and a huge grin which never left her face - told them to say "Cheese," but Emma didn't need it. A smile came naturally to her. For some, school was an unpleasant experience, either because of lessons being too hard or too dull or because of other people making it unpleasant. For her, though, the lessons were normally just challenging enough to not be boring. As for people around her, without school she would have never met Madison or Lizzie, or Sandra. Spending time in classes and doing homework was a small price to pay for their friendship.

And so Emma met a new day and a new year with a broad smile illuminated by the flash of the camera. It was promising to be a good year.

* * *

The photos were distributed among the students at the end of the week, on the homeroom meeting after the classes. Emma immediately unwrapped her copy and started to study the faces of her classmates on it, matching the images with her memories of them, while their homeroom teacher was droning on about something to do with the school track team.

First, she found her own face on the photo, and was pleased to see she looked good on it. Her nose wasn't blistering, her eyes were open, she didn't look fat or otherwise twisted. The same couldn't be said about Madison. For whatever reason, photos didn't agree with her. She always looked like she was sick on them, with pale slightly greenish skin.

Emma caught Madison's attention and forced an expression of profound sadness on her face, solemnly shaking her head while pointing at the photo. Madison pouted at her. Emma smiled and winked.

Then, there were Lizzie and Sandra. Emma wasn't as close with them as with Madison, but they still were fun to have around. Emma remembered the days before she met them. With only two people, there were only so many things to say and do before the boredom would set in. With the four of them, every day was filled with laughter.

Greg, as usual, was at the edge of the photo, slightly removed from the crowd. He had a shocked expression on his face, and his hands were clutching his butt. Judging by the mischievous grins of John and Bob - the boys who bullied Greg - they have pulled some sort of prank on him.

Emma frowned slightly before moving on. What was done was done, after all. No use dwelling on it.

She found Amanda, with whom she had a mock rivalry in Mr Gladly's class. Emma grinned. With the new exciting topic approaching, it would probably flare up again. She should prepare to put up a good show.

She continued looking at the faces on the photo. Some were her friendly acquaintances, others she barely knew despite being in the same class, some, like Greg, she knew only because of her stance on bullying, and...

"Huh?"

And then there was a tall girl on the edge of the photo wearing baggy dark clothes blending with the background and heavy glasses making her eyes look big and afraid. Her too wide mouth wasn't forming even a fake smile of so many of her classmates, let alone a real one. She looked like she would rather be somewhere else, no, like she would rather disappear than be there.

Emma gulped. A terrible premonition has entered her mind. That girl looked like... like...

She didn't know that girl. Even though she could put a name on any other face on the photo, that girl remained a mystery to her.

She looked around. There was no sign of the rich dark hair - the only attractive feature of the unknown girl. That didn't surprise Emma, for she couldn't remember ever seeing the girl before.

Yet, she was present on the photo. Was she a random student who wandered in on the scene? No, despite looking like she didn't belong there, the girl still stood posing for the photo with the rest of the students, if slightly apart from the bulk of the crowd. Besides, teachers or the photographer would tell her to move if she wasn't supposed to be there.

Without any way to find an answer, Emma was left staring at the photo for the rest of the class, and all the while something inside of her was stirring.

* * *

"Hey, Madison, do you know who this is?" Emma asked the moment their class was dismissed. She handed her photo to Madison and pointed at the strange girl.

"Huh?" Madison said. She took the photo and stared at it intently. A deep frown formed on her face as she looked at Emma's photo, then on her own copy.

"Well?" Emma probed her after a long silence.

"Hm? No, no, I don't know her," Madison said distractedly. "That's weird, though. She isn't on my photo."

"What?" Emma asked grabbing Madison's copy. Indeed, a place where the strange girl stood was empty. Emma searched the rest of the photo, as if suspecting that the girl could move around despite the impossibility of such an even. The girl was absent, however. "Huh," she said eventually. "Yeah, she isn't there. Why is she on my photo, though? Is it some kind of error or something? Some mix-up? Like, she's from another class that did the photo at the same place, and her image got layered on my copy or something?"

"Hmmm," Madison replied absently while gathering her things. "I think it's a prank."

"A prank?"

"The photographer was kinda weird. I mean, she looked too young to be an adult. I'd guess she was a volunteer from the school newspaper or something."

"Would the school really employ someone like that for the job?" Emma asked.

"To save money? Sure." Madison shrugged. "Anyway, so, we have that girl from the newspaper or just with a photography hobby or whatever, and she's bored with taking those dull photos of classes all day, so she mixes it up a bit. It's not like it would be hard to cut a student from one photo and slap it on another, especially since they are all taken at the same place."

"Why would she do it, though?"

Madison shrugged again. "I don't know. Because she can? Or to start more rumors about ghosts in school? It spooked you, after all."

Emma bit her lip. Madison's version was plausible. Winslow had its share of ghosts stories, which students like to tell each other, making the boring place just a bit more exciting. So, it was not hard to imagine someone in a position to start more rumors without much effort doing so. Even if her prank was discovered, if she truly was just a volunteer student she could point out that the school should have got a professional if they didn't want any mistake, and the matter would most likely be dropped. In other words, it fit with what Emma knew about the world around her. But...

It didn't fit with Emma. Somehow, this plausible version felt wrong compared to the seeming impossibility of the strange girl really being present when the photo was made.

"You coming?" Madison said.

Emma realized she wasn't breathing, absorbed as she was by looking at the photo. She let out a long sigh.

"Yeah," she said. "I just need to gather my stuff. You go on ahead, I'll catch you at the entrance."

"You sure? I can wait for you."

"No, go," Emma said with more force than she intended.

Madison frowned, casting a worried look at her friend, but complied.

"All right, just don't stare at that girl for too long." She grinned. "If people notice, they may take it the wrong way."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll be out in a moment." Emma forced herself to smile.

Once Madison left, Emma gathered her things, taking longer than usual to ensure she would be the last student in the class left, and then made her way to the teacher. It was easy to convince the teacher to let her look at the list of students once she said there was a girl on her photo whose name she couldn't recall and that she didn't want to embarrass herself or the girl by asking her classmates. Even though it meant the teacher herself would have to leave the classroom later than she intended, she granted Emma her request. After all, Emma was a good girl, and it wasn't that big of a deal.

Emma carefully looked through the list of names, matching each with the faces on the photo. None fit the strange girl. In fact, looking at the list like that, it became even more clear that the girl didn't belong to Emma's class. There was one more person on the photo than there were names on the list.

Emma turned away from the list.

"Found what you were looking for?" the teacher asked.

"Yeah," Emma said, smiling at the teacher before heading for the door. "Thank you."

Madison must have been right. It was just a prank by a bored photographer girl. She probably would have a good laugh if she learned about how much that spooked Emma.

As she walked down a corridor, Emma looked at the photo once again. Now that she knew what to look for, she could see that the strange girl did indeed look like she was cut from a different photo. The shadows were wrong around her compared to the rest of the class. If Emma's classmates were basking in warm morning sunlight, the girl looked like she was stuck in twilight.

"Shoddy work," Emma murmured before bumping into someone.

"Hey! Watch where you go!"

"Ah... Sorry," Emma started to apologize but then fell silent once she realized who stood before her. It was, unmistakably, the photographer girl, wearing the same gaudy purple attire. As she looked at Emma rubbing her elbow, even the familiar grin returned to her face, completing Emma's mental picture of her. "You are the one who made the yearly photo of our class, right?" she asked just to be perfectly sure.

"Yeah," the girl said. "And you are Emma. I know about you."

"Ah, yeah." It wasn't unusual for strangers to know her name. She was, after all, popular in school. Still, the way the girl said it filled Emma with unease she just managed to quench.

"Well, anyway, you should watch where you are going instead of looking at photos, even if they were made by me," the girl said. "Next time you may bump into someone less nice, you know. See you." With that, she turned to walk away.

"Ah, wait!" Emma grabbed the girl's shoulder. Even though she already decided that the matter of the photo was settled, well, bumping into the photographer herself like that was a perfect opportunity to confirm it once and for all. "About the photo... There is that girl..." Emma showed the photo she still had in her hand to the girl.

"Ah," the girl said. "Yeah, her. Look, I'm sorry, it's my mistake." Emma started to relax. So, it was some kind of mishap after all. "She was supposed to be on all photos of your class, but in the end only yours turned out right." She sighed. "I swear, that girl sometimes drives me nuts."

"Huh?" Emma said. "But... she isn't in our class. She isn't even on the list. So... why should she be on the photo?"

The girl shrugged. "Yeah, she attends a different class now. She was in yours before, though, and I figured she would appreciate me adding her on the photo. Plus, it would be something to remind your classmates of her existence. They've dismissed it for long enough, I think."

Emma gulped. it couldn't be true, could it? She didn't remember the girl, and someone transferring out of their class was the kind of thing Madison would talk about. She liked to keep track of people and had opinions on all of them. So, it was something Emma would knew about. So, the girl must have been lying. Why, though? Was it some kind of joke for her? What was the punchline here?

"In fact," the girl continued, "I should deliver a photo for her now. I'm busy, though, so why don't you do that, since you are interested in her and all?"

"What?" Before Emma could protest, a piece of folded paper was in her hand.

"Just deliver it to that locker..." The girl gave her directions. "You can't miss it. Oh, and don't open it yourself, or I'd have to eat you!" The girl laughed, but for some reason Emma couldn't take it as a joke. "Well, bye then."

Emma was left gaping in the empty corridor, the girl quickly walking away and disappearing around the corner.

Her eyes slowly turned to the paper she was given. It had to be some kind of prank. The two girls had probably conspired to spook or humiliate her for whatever reason. Perhaps simply because she was popular. Emma have heard about other popular students in Winslow being victims of cruel jokes from time to time. The strange girl was probably waiting to jump at her from that locker or something. Yeah, the image of that girl behind the locker door felt right.

Yet... Yet Emma found herself following the directions given to her by the photographer girl. Even though she knew for sure nothing good could wait her there, it would still give her some kind of closure. A punchline to a stupid joke was better than the feeling of unease following her ever since she first looked at the photo. Perhaps she would even have a laugh herself after all of that was over, laughing at how stupid she was to go along with it. Madison would probably poke fun at her, too, before giving a comforting hug and presenting a united front against those two.

Thinking like that, Emma approached the indicated locker. It was battered, and the panel with a student's name was worn out to the point that the name couldn't be read. Only the first letters - 'T' and 'H' - could still be recognized. The feeling of unease has grown, threatening to consume Emma's reason. Something was stirring inside of her, something she didn't want to think about.

Come to think of it, with that pitiful expression, the girl on the photo looked like a victim of bullying herself. Perhaps she was not a conspirator but a victim in whatever game the photographer girl played. If that was the case, wasn't it in Emma's nature to put a stop to it?

With a trembling hand she reached for the locker. And at her touch, the door opened. She gasped, as if preparing to scream. In the locker...

There was no blood.

Why did she expect to find blood?

The locker was completely empty.

Emma let out a nervous chuckle, but stiffened it before it could bloom into a hysterical laughter. She looked around, expecting to find one of the two girls or perhaps someone else working with them. A few students lazily walked towards the exit, and a teacher could be seen turning a corner, but none of them seemed interested in Emma.

She took a deep breathe. Right, so perhaps it wasn't a prank aimed against her. She already confirmed that the photo was tampered with, even though she still didn't know the exact purpose, so she could leave it at that. She even confirmed that all photos were supposed to contain the girl, not just hers. Whatever was going on, it didn't have anything to do with her. Unless something else happened, she could forget about it and put the matter to rest. With her mind shaken as it was now, it would undoubtedly be for the best to return to Madison and spend some time on Boardwalk or just fooling around. That would certainly put her at ease. Spending time with Madison had that effect on her.

The decision made, she quickly threw the folded paper into the empty locker, shut it and briskly walked away.

* * *

Emma was right. Spending time with Madison has helped greatly, even though she was poking fun at Emma apparently being afraid of ghosts all the way to her home. Thanks to Madison, Emma was able to return home with the usual carefree smile on her face.

She spent some time watching TV with her sister, poking fun at child actors and comparing them to the students in school. After just one week there wasn't much homework to do, so she could comfortably postpone it until Sunday.

The weird events of the day were dissolving quickly in her mind, leaving behind only relief over nothing bad really happening. The photo that has started it all she put in her drawer. She could think what to do with it later. Perhaps Madison would have some ideas, she was good at turning people's plays against them.

For now, she could just relax and think about what she and her friends would do tomorrow. Boardwalk was always an option, but lately she grew a bit tired of it. Perhaps it was time to visit Fugly Bob. The place was greasy and she didn't want to think about where exactly they were getting their meat, but that, perhaps, was part of its allure. In such a place it was easier to have fun and be loud than in a fancy cafe where you felt like you should uphold some standards. Plus, it was cheap, which was always a plus considering their allowance.

Thinking those pleasant thoughts, Emma reached into her pocket for the phone. And didn't find it.

"Huh?" She frowned. Did she leave it in her street clothes?

It wasn't there, either. Not anywhere else she looked in the house. Her sister didn't see it, either.

Emma's frown deepened, and she bit her lip. Perhaps she left it with Madison?

She called Madison from the stationary phone. Madison said she didn't see it but suggested that Emma should call her own number. If it's around Madison's home, she would hear it.

Emma did that. The phone rang for a long time, but nobody answered. So, it was not with Madison. Neither have anyone found it on a street. On the plus side, it was probably not stolen. A thief would surely remove the SIM card to avoid tracking. So, most likely it was lying somewhere on the streets or at school where Emma has left it.

She mentally retraced her steps. Where could she have left it? She remembered having it with her through most of the classes, she showed Madison some photos. She was normally careful with it, anyway. Winslow was not the worst school in town, but it was certainly not the best, either. Sometimes valuable things were stolen, so it paid to keep track of your stuff.

But then, she wasn't exactly careful at the end of the day, was she? And then...

Emma gulped. The most likely time for her to lose her phone was when she bumped into the photographer girl. Losing her balance like that, the phone could have fallen out of her pocket. Or the girl could have snatched it. Wasn't it how pickpockets operated? Shock someone with a sudden bump or shove to distract from their things being whisked away from their pockets. Emma have seen something about it on TV.

And considering everything else that happened this day, it was probably another part of whatever prank she was trying to pull. She probably wanted to lure Emma back to school after it was closed. Maybe blame her for breaking in or something.

Emma sighed in frustration. Well then, she obviously wasn't going to do what that girl wanted. A phone was just a phone, it was due replacement anyway, and tomorrow was a good day to do it. It would suck to rerecord all her contacts, and she would need to block the old phone, but it wasn't that big of...

Emma froze. She remembered her last sleepover with Madison. There were some embarrassing photos on her phone. Some really, really embarrassing photos. Compared to releasing them, any prank the girl was likely to pull couldn't be that bad.

Emma swore under her breath. The phone was protected by a password. Certainly, the girl couldn't just break through it, right? But...

She couldn't be sure. And that uncertainty in its own right was comparable to whatever fate was awaiting her at the hands of that photographer girl.

She quickly changed into her street clothes.

"I just remembered I've left something with Madison!" she shouted to her sister. "I'm going to pick it up. I'll be quick!"

Not waiting for the answer, she ran out of the comfort of her home.

* * *

It was easy to get into school. The fence was full of holes if you were to walk away from the main entrance where people were likely to see them, and the lock was broken again, yet to be replaced.

That is to say, it was physically easy to get into school. When Emma opened the doors, she hesitated at the entrance. It was already dark, and, devoid of light, the school looked like another world. Familiar hallways looked like tunnels into unknown without the students to give them life. Silence reigned, broken only by the sound of the doors opening. Echo roared through empty spaces, as if the building itself was growling at the intrusion.

Taking a deep breath, Emma stepped forward, crossing the boundary between two worlds. Her footsteps, too, created a loud echo which to her ears sounded like dozens invisible figures were following her every move.

"At least nobody would be able to sneak up on me," she whispered and instantly regretted it. The echo of her words turned into incomprehensible but unmistakably sinister murmur of alien voices. It still bore some resemblance to her own voice, but that just made it worse. Like an uncanny valley of sound, the similarity was just strong enough that every difference stood in stark contrast to her expectations, making her think of a demon mocking her.

At that moment, Emma nearly turned away. But... she's gone so far, turn away now would be worse than never coming here in the first place. It would be admitting defeat, it would make her...

Weak.

Why did that word fill her with such dread?

Trying and failing to keep her composure, Emma retraced her steps to the homeroom, carefully looking around for the phone. She had a flashlight with her, an old piece brought in case of power shortages that never really happened in her neighborhood, but were common in other parts of Brockton Bay. And even though the flashlight could barely penetrate the thick darkness surrounding her, it still gave her an illusion of control. She was not completely defenseless before that alien world of night.

And so she clutched it tightly in both hands like a sword she used to slash an invisible omnipresent enemy before her.

She looked everywhere, even tracing her steps back to other classes, but couldn't find her phone anywhere.

She went back to the entrance and stopped at the boundary. Where could it be? It was surely that girl's doing, so where would she put it? Where did she want Emma to go?

The answer was obvious. The locker. She even gave Emma directions.

Emma spared the last lingering look at the streets outside before turning to go. And as she walked down empty hallways, she thought about the events of the day.

The strange girl on the photo. The insistence that girl was once in Emma's class, despite Emma not remembering her. The directions to the locker and the piece of paper Emma delivered.

What was the game here? What's going to happen next? She was missing some piece, some crucial piece that would connect it all into a coherent picture and explain her unnaturally strong feelings about it all. Perhaps she was supposed to unfold the paper? Perhaps that contained the final clue? Did the girl expect her to go against her instructions? Wouldn't it be easier to say it's fine to take a look? Or just not say anything about it?

Whatever was the case, soon she would reach the bottom of this mystery.

Emma could see the right locker already. With each step she took towards it, something inside of her stirred. She could feel that the moment she placed her hand on it, there was no turning back.

Anger swelled within her. Well then, whatever it was, she was ready to face it. She didn't know why she's got spooked so much earlier today, but she would not be afraid again. That girl wanted to fuck with her? Well, she could fuck her up right back.

She reached the locker and jerked the door wide open, pushing the flashlight right inside with the other hand.

Inside the locker, a girl was standing, a piece of paper and a photo in her hands. As the door opened, she lowered her hands, bringing the paper right into the circle of light, and Emma could see her own face on the photo and her name on the paper.

Swallowing, she brought the light higher, to see the girl's face. The light was reflected from glasses, briefly blinding Emma. She knew already it was the girl from the photo, though.

"Hello, Emma," the girl said.

Emma prepared an angry remark about luring her here, but it died on her lips once she could see again.

Hearing that voice, looking into those eyes, standing face to face with that girl, undivided by the boundary of paper...

Emma had no choice but to recognize her.

"T-Taylor..."

Memories flooded her mind.

* * *

It has started shortly after the attack. She almost forgot it by now, but back then it pretty much redefined her life. The police has arrived in time, sparing her any serious bodily harm, but the wounds on her heart weren't as easy to heal. She locked herself in her room, refusing to talk with anyone, going out only to eat and visit a bathroom, but otherwise shutting the world from her entirely. As long as she didn't interact with anyone...

Nobody could hurt her.

The situation couldn't last, of course. Her parents wanted her to see a therapist, but that would have required her to talk about what happened, and she couldn't do it. To return to that day, to see the light reflected from the blade... She couldn't do it.

So, she has pretended to get better. She agreed to go to school. And there she met Taylor. She knew Taylor was trying to speak with her many times before. However, she couldn't face even her. Now, seeing her eyes light up at the sight of Emma, a hesitant smile creeping on her lips, she knew she could lean on Taylor. She knew she could share her fears and insecurities, cry on her shoulder. It would be just like before, in the months after Taylor's mother's death, only with their roles reversed. And perhaps it would heal her. But...

A shadow fell upon her heart.

But she couldn't do it. She couldn't break apart here, at school, where everyone could see. She knew how people talked about Taylor as she was then, with tears always in her eyes, with smile forgotten by her face. At best it was pity. At worst, cruel laughter. Emma could accept neither.

And so, another way to deal with it came to her mind. Before Taylor could say the words of greeting, Emma's mouth turned into a scowl.

"What do you want?" she asked Taylor abruptly. "What, did you come to me to cry about your mommy again? Was refusing to see you too subtle for your little brain? Piss off, Hebert. Our parents - oh, I meant my parents and your father - aren't here, so they can't force me to play nice with you like they did before."

Looking at Taylor's smile faltering, the light in her eyes dimming gave Emma a rush of power. She knew Taylor was strong. She managed to put herself together after a tragedy. Yet Emma had power over her. She could crash that smile at will. She could fill Taylor's eyes with tears. Whatever strength Taylor had, it was nothing before Emma.

So, Emma was stronger than Taylor.

So, she couldn't be weak.

So, she was strong.

So, she was whole, for fragile things couldn't be strong.

So, she was fine.

From there, a bullying campaign has begun. Every time Emma remembered the attack, every time she doubted herself, she would seek out Taylor. Each tear shed by her, each pitiful expression she made was like a healing balm applied to Emma's heart.

Others soon joined her. For many, it wasn't bullying. Or, to be precise, they didn't call it bullying. Taylor was an unattractive clingy girl deluding herself into thinking she's Emma's friend. So, they educated her by listing every reason she couldn't possibly be a friend of someone so popular. Some joined for much the same reason Emma has started it. By picking on Taylor, by pushing her at the bottom of the class hierarchy, their own social status would rise just a notch. They couldn't be at the bottom if they were standing at someone's shoulders, right?

Some people would call Emma mean and ask her to stop, but they didn't truly care about the situation to do anything about it. Nobody liked tattlers, after all, and to risk their own status by going against a popular girl on behalf of friendless Taylor was too much of a bother.

Not like they could do anything meaningful, anyway. Sometimes teachers would catch glimpses of what was going on. They would talk to Emma, kindly, for she was a good student from a good family, with plenty of friends. Emma would pretend to be frustrated and embarrassed, she would tell them about Taylor clinging to her and how she just wanted to be left alone. They would admonish her gently and make her apologize, while telling Taylor she should try to find some other friends. With that, the matter would be left to rot.

Most people, though, simply didn't care. Life was vast, after all, and spending any part of it helping a person they barely if at all knew seemed wasteful when they could have fun with their friends or studying or complaining about boredom. For them, Taylor was not a real person but a part of the scenery they sometimes glimpsed through gaps in more important things before walking away, never turning back.

And so it was that Taylor was tormented by Emma and her friends daily, unknowingly alleviating the pain of her former friend.

However, no pain could last forever. As time passed, Emma was returning to that fateful day of the attack less and less, until the incident had been completely lost in the labyrinth of her memories. Yet, she didn't stop bullying Taylor.

Why?

Well, to put it simply, it was something to do. By that time the bullying has been engraved into Emma's daily routine. She would talk about new pranks, execute them and then talk afterwards about how well they went. It was a game she played with her friends. The reasons for starting that game have been long lost, but the excitement of shared activity remained. The anticipation of a new round of playing, the careful preparations, the secrecy that bound them against adults, the execution, when all of them worked together, the fond memories of something well done... It was, in a word, fun.

In their eyes Taylor has long lost her humanity, becoming a doll existing only for their amusement. Kids don't care about damaging a ball when they play, and so they didn't care about Taylor. For them, she never had an identity outside of bullying, especially since with time she became more and more quiet, more and more fading into background until someone called attention to her. And so, Taylor who was not a bullying victim didn't exist.

And, defined solely by her role, she was not human.

So, the rules that bind humans together didn't apply to her.

So, anything could be done to her without remorse.

Even the locker full of used tampons.

It was a fun event where girls would giggle in embarrassment, and the boys would turn away and pretend not to listen, lest they become privy of dreadful mysteries. Certainly, by that point nobody was asking if Taylor deserved such a fate. Not being human, she couldn't deserve or not deserve it. She was simply something it could be done to without feeling guilt.

And so, the preparations for the locker were complete.

And so, the prank was executed.

And so, they laughed.

And then... and then...

And then Emma woke up, and Taylor was present neither at school nor in her memories. She vanished like a nightmare melted by the cruel light of day. The life continued without her.

Soon, the void left by her absence in Emma's soul was filled by other activities. Some traces of poison that was the world of night intruding upon her peaceful reality lingered inside her, which was most likely the reason for her new attitude and the reason why nobody else has taken Taylor's place in her life.

But otherwise... Life moved on.

The story of a friend turning against her friend and tormenting her every day has finished and left forgotten in the days of the past.

Until now.

* * *

"T-Taylor," Emma whispered. "I-It's you... I... I... I'm s-sorry..."

The sudden recovery of her memories, the forced confrontation with what she has done without the lens of inhumanity she has forged cause Emma's world to crumble. She took a step back and fell on the floor, legs refusing to obey her. The flashlight, the only source of comfort and control she has left in this alien dimension went out. Yet, she could still see. The locker was emanating poisonous reddish light, shrouding Taylor in shadows. Only the lenses of her glasses and the white of her teeth could be seen clearly.

Taylor took a step forward, emerging from the locker. The light increased in intensity, yet it did not fight the shadows, allowing them to breed freely. Emma scrambled back, until she found herself against the wall.

Taylor stepped closer and leaned towards Emma, cupping Emma's head in her hands.

"I know," she said, and her voice was melancholic and wishful, a stark contrast to the demonic environment. "I know, Emma. And I forgive you."

"H-Huh?" Emma was crying now, each tear opening a gash in her heart.

"I forgive you," Taylor said, leaning closer still. Emma felt her heavy breath smelling of dried blood on her face. "You are not a monster, Emma. You were hurt and scared, and you listened to whispers promising you salvation at a price of one sacrifice. It makes you weak, but that doesn't make you a monster."

Emma jolted at those words, but then returned to crying as a new wave of remorse has overcome her. It was better for her to be weak than trying to be strong at such great a cost.

"What you did after you were saved... Well, it's still hard for me to see the difference between human choice and inhuman design. Perhaps you are to blame for it, after all. Perhaps not. I forgive you anyway. If there is one constant in this world, it's that humans can change. And I want to believe you have changed."

"T-Taylor... I..." Emma raised her hand, trying to touch Taylor's face in turn, but Taylor stood up, removing herself from Emma's reach.

"I'm not angry at you anymore, Emma," she said and started to unbutton her shirt. The light behind her grew brighter. "But... I'm so, so hungry..."

"T-Taylor?"

A long gash running from Taylor's neck to below her belly became visible. It opened, engulfing Emma in heavy smell of dried blood and revealing rows upon rows of rusted nails.

"So, since I forgave you for what you've done, I hope you can forgive me this."

Emma screamed, but not for long.

* * *

Shadows danced across the dark hallway. Away from human eyes, they had no need to abide the laws of optics. Even though the light would not permit it, they danced where blood was spilled and licked dry. Slowly, lazily they stretched into the air, taking form that mocked human figures, which is the duty of all shadows.

"Hey, Locker Girl," the shadow said.

"Shadow Stalker," Taylor replied neutrally while fixing her glasses. Red specks could be seen on them, though they could have easily been a play of the poisonous light.

"You got balls, after all. Color me surprised. Thought you were going to cry yourself into Oblivion in her locker. But no, you went and caught yourself some pretty game. Even though you had help, it's still not bad for a first hunt. Makes me almost glad you've escaped my grasp."

"Mmm," Taylor replied staring at the shadow with no expression.

"I mean, I don't fancy all those mind games with giving your prey hope and then snuffing it anyway. That's more Old Coil's thing with his 'What if I weren't a pathetic waste of space? Oops, no, I am. Off from the roof with me!' Me, I like to be direct. Watching them struggle against the inevitable is half of the fun, I say! But, eh, luring in the prey with honeyed words works fine, too, I guess."

"It wasn't a mind game," Taylor said quietly.

For a moment, all was silent. Then the shadow figure laughed, its form distorting to make room for the growing mouth. In its gap hell could be seen.

"You must be kidding me," it said after the laughter stopped and the shadows took the previous form. The figure stepped closer to Taylor, placing one ephemeral hand on her shoulder and leaning to look in her eye. "We are predators, you and me. And humans are our prey. Deny it all you want, but the only difference between us is the choice of victims. I hunt the bullied, and you hunt the bullies." She grinned widely, and hell stepped closer to the surface. "In fact, wouldn't it make for a good team? We can divide the kids between us, picking whoever we like and telling others to scatter. I'd make a better partner for you than your vixen friend, that's for sure. She loves exposing everything she could grab, and the both of us, we like to bury everything nice and deep, right?"

Taylor didn't answer.

The shadow took a step back.

"Well, just think about it. Either way, congratulations. It's nice seeing the Seven Mysteries of Winslow being complete once more after so long. I'll keep an eye on you, so nothing lesser than me would get you."

With that, the shadows dissolved into darkness.

* * *

"Hey, have you heard? About the Locker Girl?"

"Locker Girl? Sounds familiar... Who's that?"

"Well, they say there was a girl a few years back, and she was stuffed in a locker full of used tampons!"

"No way! Eww, gross!"

"Yes, way! My sister was here back then, and she says it's true! But anyway, that's not the cool part. You see, the girl died in that locker!"

"Huh? Why would she die in a locker?"

"I don't know. Suffocated, I think. Or maybe there was a sharp nail in a wrong place. She was trashing around, naturally. It's not important. What is important, is that with her dying breath she cursed the people who did it to her and the school itself. And so strong was her curse that it bound her here, to haunt the locker forever!"

"So, what? She just sits in a locker all day and all night? That's kinda pathetic."

"No, she gets out. You see, when people place a photo and a name of a person who bullies them, she would go after that person. Then she would drag them inside her locker and drown them with blood, and pierce their flesh with rusted nails. And then she would feast on the remnants, leaving behind only one mark, as if someone licked the locker with a bloodied tongue. Want me to show it? I know where to find the mark."

"Nah... You know, I don't believe in those stories, but it's kinda spooky."

"Well, the Locker Girl goes only after the bullies, so there is nothing for you to fear. Right, Madison?"

* * *

AN: How much of the attitude towards Taylor was natural and how much was SS's doing depends mostly on your cynicism. Suffice it to say, Higanbana has a character with a power to make kids so addicted to bullying, they laughed at a girl's suicide. So, yeah, it's entirely possible that SS is to blame for everything from the moment Emma opened her heart to foreign influence.

Also, damn, was it a choir to write. At over 7000 words, it's the longest single piece of fanfiction I've ever written. Hope you enjoy.


	20. The Truth We All Suspect

**Bold** = red text

_Italics_ = blue text

* * *

**The Truth We All Suspect**

(Umineko crossover)

"S-shit."

There was so much blood.

She didn't want that to happen.

Blood on the table, blood on his hands, blood on his knife.

Yet, the man continued to prepare dinner as if everything was fine. Not a muscle on his face betrayed the agony he must have felt.

She tried to make it better, she tried to make him stop, to take care of his wounds. Adrenalin flooder her bloodstream, her vision blurred, synapses flared, forming alien shapes. Visions of what she wanted to do, what he wanted to do, what her instincts were telling her to do, what she's done, what she could have done... all were mixed together, creating a collage of misery. First insect landed on man's face.

* * *

Above the world of humans, in a place beyond reality, two witches were sitting opposite each other at a table where an old game board was placed. They looked at a certain man standing nearby and looking at the unfolding scene of murder with an increasingly troubled expression on his face. The witches were barely holding back their laughter.

"So," the man said slowly, as if awakening from a trance, "Berkanstel. You are saying that the culprit, the true culprit behind the murder that took place on Rokkejima, is... a young woman with superpowers who was found by Ushiromiya family on a beach during the storm? That is your theory?"

Berkanstel giggled. "Correct. To be precise, she didn't want to commit any murders. But she suffers from a severe brain damage. Even as her control over others increases, her understanding of the situation and herself wanes. Out of some remnants of her old personality she wanted to conceal her true nature, making everyone she controlled act normal, but, given her state, it's not surprising that her attempts turned out to be... less than perfect. Certainly, Battler, you have to admit it's possible. It even neatly solves all those pesky closed rooms if we just assume people inside can be controlled remotely."

Battler snapped out of a haze they overtook him and glared at the witch. "Don't make me laugh! A girl who can control minds and just happened to arrive there?! And just happened to have a condition absolving her of the need of motive?! How is that different from claiming a witch did it?!"

Berkanstel smirked. "**Parahuman powers are not magical in nature**. The Sorcerer of Tragedy ruling over the fragment native to this girl guarantees it.

"Moreover, **at the end of her tale Taylor was transported to another world than her own in a condition you can see here**. This is the truth of Worm fragment. Another truth is that **it is impossible to travel to dimensions too close to your own**. So, you can't travel to a universe different from your own only by a single atom. Drastic differences like parahuman presence is needed to make the journey possible. It's never specified if such dimensions don't exist, or if they are locked by Entities, or if it's a natural law of physics. Which leaves the truth in the domain of witches.

"Therefore, _it's not impossible to imagine such a fragment where Taylor was transported near Rokkejima before being found by Contessa, even though that's not what happened in the main Worm fragment_. In other words, while the chance of such a thing happening is laughably low,_ it's still above zero_." Berkanstel looked triumphantly at Battler. With each proclamation a spike would emerge from the game board, piercing his arms and legs, pinning him in place. He could no longer even avert his gaze to hide the pain clearly showing on his face. "And as the Witch of Miracles, I guarantee that's what truly happened."

Battler gasped, blood leaking from his mouth, covering the game board in crimson. Taylor seemed to notice it, for she shuddered and buried her face in her hands.

"Lambadelta..." Battler whispered. "You are the Game Master for this round. Act like it. Expose Berkanstel's cheap tricks. Don't let Beatrice's masterpiece to be... trashed like that. I'm begging you!"

"I'm sorry, Battler!" Lambadelta said between bouts of laughter. "But that's exactly what happened. She's right, and I lose this round."

"I don't accept it," Battler said, gathering the remnants of his strength to present a defiant expression.

Lambadelta's face twisted in sadistic delight. "Then I should deliver the final strike myself!" She leaned closer to Battler, gathering his blood into her tea cup. She twirled the mixture with a spoon a few times and threw the cup into the air. "As the Game Master I proclaim, **Skitter was the culprit! She killed everyone with bees!**"

Blood-tainted tea formed a spear which struck Battler straight into his heart. In death, his face reflected only betrayal.

* * *

Two witches were enjoying their tea and admiring their new sculpture: a man crucified over a game board, staring at it intently as if his unseeing eyes could find something that wasn't there.

"So," Lambadelta whispered, "when should we tell him that I've switched game boards while he wasn't looking?"


	21. Alpha Earth

.

**Alpha Earth**

(Worm/Memoirs Found in a Bathtub)

I fidgeted, not knowing what to say. Sitting with a team of supervillains in Fugly Bob felt surreal.

"So," Brian said, breaking the ice. "You are a double agent?"

I froze in place.

"New blood, huh?" Lisa said, smiling at me. "Makes me feel nostalgic."

Alec snorted. "Yeah, because you are such a veteran. I still remember the time of quadruple agents. Back then, I could actually remember who my real boss was."

"Wait," I said. "You are all... agents?"

"Yep," Lisa said. "I'm septimal. Want me to indoctrinate you in my organization?"

"Which one?"

"Which one would you like?"

* * *

AN: A drabble of exactly 100 words because I can't come up with a more substantial idea. Also, I really should reread Memoirs. They are awesome. It's like a novelization of Paranoia done with style and some gravitas.


	22. Imperfect Delusion

.

**Imperfect Delusion**

(Kara no Kyoukai crossover)**  
**

I stopped to catch my breath. I placed a heavy case I carried on the floor, sighing in relief at my prosthesis no longer tagging on the skin of my shoulder.

There was an abstract painting hanging before me. One of many, they were the only bright spots in an otherwise dim and empty hallway. Not for the first time I studied seemingly random splashes of color and disconnected lines. I knew those paintings were a part of mystery shrouding this place, but I couldn't even begin to guess on their inner workings. I've tried to mentally combine the paintings before, arranging them in various configurations or imposing them onto each other, bu no patter emerged.

I took a deep breath, my nose being immediately assaulted by the smell pervading this place. Not a bad smell, just strange: strawberry and ozone, and something else I couldn't place. It, along with the noise that could be noticed only during brief periods when it would stop, letting my mind register its contrast with silence, too, was a part of the mystery.

"Reality is given to us in our perception. What you perceive as real is real. For you, if for nobody else. For a single moment, if not for longer. It stands to reason, then, that by controlling perception reality can be defined." The voice coming from my cell phone was annoyingly serene. For my boss, what transpired here was just an intellectual challenge, I was sure. Something to occupy her thoughts before the next display was due.

I bit a sarcastic remark that was on the tip of my tongue and tried to think. "So, what you are saying is that this is not real? An illusion?"

"Essentially. I suspect you are still in the first room you've entered, walking in circles. You just think you see an endless hallway, you just think you are moving forwards. Vision, hearing, sense of balance - you can't trust them."

I frowned. "Shouldn't I be immune to that stuff?"

That was, after all, why I found myself working on Touko Aozaki in the first place. Whatever Contessa did to my head, it allowed me to walk into Aozaki's boundary field like it wasn't there, back when I was searching for a prosthesis that would actually work for me. I think she wanted to dissect me at first, but in the end she decided to keep me around like one of her occult curiosities. I agreed, both for her work and for an entrance into the moonlit world.

"Normally yes, but you are doing it to yourself."

"Huh?"

"The paintings, the noise, the smell, probably the texture of walls as well - I think they are all tools used to guide your mind along certain patterns on subconscious level, leading it into a trance-like state similar to self-hypnosis necessary to perform magecraft. For ordinary people, it means surrendering to the mystery, willingly suspending whatever resistance they have to offer. For magi, it means reinforcing the mystery with their own power. Essentially, it ceases to matter how good you are at seeing through lies people tell you. What matters is how good you are at lying to yourself. I suspected Holloway to be my perfect enemy, given my nature, but now I think she is your perfect enemy, too."

Was it a joke for her? Lecturing me at a time like that? All I wanted was straight answers, but she insisted on turning every conversation into a lesson in philosophy.

I took a few deep breaths trying to calm down. I looked down the hallway. It was empty, as usual. No furniture, no turns, no dust, no footsteps, no cracks on the walls, no carpet. The only light was coming from the paintings, shrouding the hallway in deep shadows. It couldn't be "a lie I told to myself," as Aozaki put it. But an image planted in my mind by foreign forces, left to grow until it consumed my world? That I could believe.

I tried to tell myself what I see is not real. There was no endless hallway, just an ordinary room with a weird painting. I closed my eyes and held my breath to get rid of the smell. I concentrated on Aozaki's voice to banish the noise from my head.

When I opened my eyes, the hallway failed to disappear.

"So, how do I get out of here?" I asked eventually, admitting defeat.

"Holloway's art is the art of deception," she said. "Through psychological tricks and magecraft she creates an illusion complete enough that people can lose themselves in it. If the lie is perfect, if the perception is fooled completely, there would be no escape. But it's hard to reach perfection in imitation. As any deceit, Holloway's creation is vulnerable to inconsistencies. Little things won't add up. Search them, and you may find an exist."

"Inconsistencies? Like a difference in perception?"

"Yes. The illusion is likely to be slightly different for each individual person. The effects of stimuli of each mind would be unique. Two people could probably navigate the building by comparing what they see."

I nodded, even though Aozaki couldn't see it. I didn't have a second mind with me, but I did have something to provide me with an alternative perspective.

I reached down to the heavy case and opened it, releasing a dozen of my dolls. They were far from elegant: eyes were too big for their heads, done in as much detail as I could to allow me to see through them without the problems I've experienced with my bugs. Ears were the same. Mouths were thin lines slashing their heads in two, slightly parted, unable to completely conceal the first row of sharp needles. The rest of facial features was done crudely, as an afterthought, leaving them with barely present noses and misshapen cheeks.

Their limbs were long, with an additional joint for flexibility, and they ended in short ragged claws perfect for climbing rough surfaces or sticking into someone's flesh where they would stay no matter what.

They lacked hairs and clothes.

As magecraft constructs, they were far inferior to even the lesser creations of Aozaki. To do better I had to learn more, and Aozaki was stingy with revealing her mysteries, demanding I run errands like this one to uphold the equivalent exchange. I did have one advantage over her, however: numbers. Where Aozaki typically relied on a single masterpiece, I could bring a dozen hack works to the task. I suspected this talent of mine to be a remnant of my power, though I preferred not to think whether or not my passenger was still active, still connected to my mind. Whether it could turn me into what I've become at the end once again.

It was practical, that was all that mattered right now.

I closed my eyes, conjuring an image that served as my magecraft trigger: a metal door shutting before my face, light disappearing behind it. Once the my world was consumed by darkness, mana shot through my circuits, connecting me to the dolls scattered on the floor. I leaned heavily against a wall, momentarily disoriented and feeling the beginning of a headache. Revelation of this mystery still took a toll on my mind and body, though it was probably for the better now. Changing the patterns of my mind might help me fight the illusion.

I had thirteen bodies now, one big dozen small, each slightly different. Their eyes were my eyes, their limbs my limbs. My senses expanded, turning the hallway into a kaleidoscope of sensations, a simple image shredded into a puzzle. I looked around, each spot examined from a dozen of angles, carefully compared to spot any differences, but I couldn't spot anything wrong. I frowned, baring many sets of teeth, and closed all of my eyes, deciding to concentrate of one sensation at a time.

I walked in a dozen directions, carefully, step by step, comparing the positions of my bodies in reference to one another.

There.

Even though one of my bodies walked down the hallway for what felt like a hundred meters, it only took a few seconds for another body to reach it.

I continued walking around what I knew was a room, a map slowly emerging in my mind, roughly matching the blueprints of the building Aozaki showed me. Not for the first time I wished I still had my bugs. With thousands reference points it would be easy to find my way out of this box. With only a dozen, it was a tedious task. Aozaki was saying something, but I ignored her for a moment, concentrating solely on walking and feeling the floor under my feet.

The noise stopped, and shivers ran down my spine.

There was a presence in the hallway. Something lurked in the shadows, never showing itself, but drawing closer and closer each time there was silence. It could not be seen, it could not be heard, it could not be smelt, it could not be touched.

It was.

Even though I knew now I was trapped in an illusion, I had no doubts it could kill me.

I walked my main body where the door to the stairs I knew should be, using other bodies as points of reference to not stray from the path.

Too slow. it was behind me. In the darkness behind my eyelids, I could see a future without me.

I threw one of my bodies at the presence and screamed in agony. A broken doll fell on the floor, disconnected from my mind.

My dolls couldn't feel pain.

I shouldn't feel their pain.

The pain was real.

For me, if for no one else.

I continued dawn my path, guiding more bodies to block the presence, preparing myself for agony. I was acutely aware that with each movement of the bodies the path was becoming more uncertain. My sense of direction could betray me, leading me back to the endless circle.

Each broken doll felt as a severed limb. Bit by bit, my body was being reduced to nothing, and I laughed. I laughed because I knew the sensation, I understood now it was pulled straight out of my mind, from one of the fights with Scion. And from that, I knew it wasn't real. It didn't fit the current situation, sensations not matching the context, falsehood exposed by my familiarity with agony.

I continued to walk, and finally reached the wall. All of my remaining eyes opened, searching for cracks in the shadows, an imperfection in overlaying pictures.

There. A doorknob.

As I walked into a wall, the presence has finally reached me. Pain shot through my shoulder, and I fell on the stair gasping for air. The hallway disappeared behind me.

For awhile I was simply lying here, trying to piece my mind back together. The pain subsided, though it didn't go away completely. I started to hear a voice shouting something close to me.

I stared at its direction with unfocused eyes, seeing a dim light.

Right. I had a cell phone.

"Yes?" I said after placing it closer to my ear.

"Taylor! What happened?" It was Aozaki.

Right. I was running an errand for her, wasn't I?

"I found a way up," I said.

"Oh. Good. Continue."

I waited a few moments for her to make some philosophical point, but she was silent. Weird.

Slowly, I stood up, prosthesis now a dead weight on my shoulder. Aozaki probably wouldn't be happy with it.

Taking a deep breath, I started to walk up the stairs. The walk helped me to clear my thoughts. The lack of agony helped more, though I was worried about a dull pain in my fake arm. I tried to move it. The pain moved, the arm remained in place.

I reached the top of the stairs, and, sending my small bodies ahead of me, walked into a room full of butterflies. It took me a few moments to realize they were painted on wallpapers adorning the room, though the eyes on their wings moved, looking straight at me.

It took me longer to notice I was not alone with the butterflies. There was a table in the center of the room, and a woman sitting behind it, sipping tea. Dressed in a simple black dress concealing her body, with a plain face and long black hair tied in a loose ponytail, she didn't look like much until you met her gaze. Her eyes were sharp, looking at me with a mixture of curiosity and anticipation, as if I were a bug soon to be added into her collection.

"Miss Hebert," she said, smiling. "I was wondering when you would finally come to see me. Did you enjoy my art gallery?"

"Amanda Holloway?" I said. I recognized her from a photo Aozaki showed me, of course, but I didn't really know what else to say.

"Taylor, did you-" Aozaki started to say. Holloway snapped her fingers, and the cell phone went dead. I dropped it, freeing my hand.

"We don't need interruptions, do we?" she said. "Now, if you don't mind me asking, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"

"I'm here to stop you," I said lamely. Aisha or Lisa would probably have something more witty ready to say, but I was never good at this kind of thing.

"And why is that?" she asked, rising an eyebrow in what must have been a practiced motion.

"Because you kidnap and kill people?" I said. And because Aozaki was curious about Holloway's work.

"But you don't care about those people," Holloway said. "After all, you didn't even see them, unlike Dinah. For you, they may as well not exist."

"What?" My blood ran cold. How did she know?

She smiled and took a sip of tea before answering. "I know all about you, Miss Hebert. Your mind bleeds into the walls, saturating the whole place with your thoughts. And I know that you don't care about people I use to get psychoactive components for my workings. Not really. They are an abstraction to you, one you can dismiss if it would be convenient."

That was enough. I wasn't there to listen to some third rate villain monologue. I took a step forward, and the room shifted, growing larger. The distance between me and Holloway remained the same as before.

Another illusion.

I moved my remaining small bodies to get reference points, and Holloway smiled.

"Now, now, that's cheating."

Butterflies on the wallpapers came to live, descending on me and severing dolls from my mind, leaving me alone but for the last small body I've left behind to watch the door.

"it's not real," I said, trying to reconnect with the dolls.

"It's real enough," she said. "Now, where were we? Ah yes, the abstractions. Several people died during this conversation."

"What?"

"Not here, not by my hand. Across the world, people are always dying for one reason or another. What do you feel about it?"

Nothing much.

"Exactly. Reality is given to us in our perception. If you never knew those people, their deaths would at worst make you feel vaguely sad. They didn't exist in your world, so them ceasing to exist in reality doesn't affect you. It's not a bad or good thing, it's merely how human mind functions. So, what is the difference between those people and the ones I use?"

"I know about them," I said, seething with impotent anger. There had to be a way to get to her, I just needed to think and find it. The pain in my fake limb didn't help me to concentrate.

"No, that's not it. They are an abstraction to you, same as people hurt by Coil. The knowledge about them didn't stop you from joining him until Dinah was shoved into your face."

"I was a different person back then," I said, crossing my arms defensively.

"I think the core remains the same. What you always wanted from the day you've obtained your powers was control over your life. And now the route to that control lies in working with Aozaki. You could have left me to her. It's not like she would leave me alone, and she knows more about what I'm doing. But you want to learn her mysteries, you want power that comes with them and a weapon to use against the moonlit world should it come after you. That is your true motivation, and the kidnapped people you just use as a shield to pretend to be heroic in your selfishness."

"Just who are you to tell me this?!" I shouted, pointing at her accusatory. "I've sacrificed everything for the sake of people you claim I don't care about!"

"You've sacrificed everything for the sake of your delusions. You had an image in your head about a person you wanted to be, and you refused to let reality redefine it. But in the end, there were very few people serving as your anchors. When hell broke loose, your reality included only a couple of your closest friends and family. Certainly, you felt little sacrificing hundreds to win the fight. You are deluding yourself if you think you were ever a hero. You were small, in the end. Human."

"So what?" I said distractedly. I've noticed that I pointed with my missing arm. "Is it a part of the speech where you propose to join you?"

"Oh, no," she said, laughing. "If you were to work with me, the abstraction of kidnapped people would become reality for you. Conflict would be inevitable. No, I have a different proposal. I know some magi whose path doesn't require actions you would find questionable. Some of them wouldn't mind to take you as an apprentice. Working with them would allow you to learn the mysteries of magecraft in relative safety. It would give you an opportunity to prepare for whatever you truly want to do in this new world, away from conflicts that don't concern you. I think it's a solution that would surely benefit us both."

I took a step back, positioning myself against the door frame. The last remaining small body served as a point of reference.

"I think I have a better answer," I said, looking straight at Holloway.

I closed my eyes and jumped, nonexistent limb thrust before me.

My sense of balance could betray me, so I excluded it from equation.

My vision was unreliable, so I went blind.

Flesh was useless in the world of illusions, with even the sense of touch controlled by someone else.

So, I attacked with something that didn't exist outside of my mind.

According to Aozaki's blueprints, this room should have been small enough for my jump to carry me to its center. As I landed, I felt something in the limb that should have not felt anything. A resistance parting before my imaginary fingers.

Then the world exploded around me.

* * *

I came to my senses slowly, pushing against the familiar sensation of agony threatening to drown me in a world of red.

There were no butterflies on the walls. There was, however, blood.

I groaned, frantically looking myself over to determine the damage. My prosthetic arm was gone, its pieces scattered across the room. I had several deep cuts on my head and the real hand. No damage to the body, the reinforced raincoat held whatever it was, though everything hurt.

Hissing at the pain, I applied basic healing magecraft on my wounds, stopping the bleeding. Not a real cure, just a stopgap measure until I could get help.

Sitting upright and breathing deeply, I looked around.

The room was bare. No wallpapers, no table, no Holloway. There was a black magic circle in the middle of it, where the table should have been. Inside of it was placed on of those abstract paintings, now charred and torn to shreds. From the edges of the circle black lines spread across the room, like bulging veins of some beast. I could feel faint traces of evaporating prana from them.

The illusion was broken.

I didn't know for how long I was just sitting there, staring into space, telling myself that soon I'll find the strength to stand up.

Eventually, my trance was interrupted by Aozaki appearing in the doorway, heavy case that I knew to be the projection machine by her side.

She noticed me and rushed to my side, surveying the damage. Apparently satisfied with my work, she helped me to stand up.

"Taylor," she said. Was it worry in her voice? "What happened?"

"I've lost your arm," I said, waving its remnants before her.

"Again?" she asked with a faint smile. "Well, at least I know what I'm teaching you next. You are not getting a new arm unless you can build it yourself. Now, seriously, can you remember what happened? You've walked into the room and started speaking with yourself, then your signal was lost."

"Huh? No. I've met Holloway. We... talked. Then I lunged at her with a phantom arm - I figured I can use imaginary limb to fight her illusions. Then... there was an explosion? I think. Then I woke up."

"Imaginary limb?" Aozaki looked at where my arm should have been before shaking her head. "Later."

She looked at the magic circle. Making sure I can stand on my own, she walked towards it and reached in the remnants of the painting, fetching a cracked stone. She showed it to me, and I recognized a smeared rune.

"A trap. You are lucky she's no good when it comes to manipulating material world," she said before looking me straight in the eye. "Holloway was never here, Taylor."

"Huh?"

"It's her modus operandi. The House of Renunciation, the House of Six Suicides, now this... She shrouds a building in mystery, spends a short time in it and moves away, leaving a few corpses and a falling illusion behind. It seems she spends less and less time with each project. She is either becoming impatient or better at finding whatever she seeks."

I frowned. "But you said..."

"It was a possibility she was still here. I strongly suspected otherwise, but the possibility was there. It would have been disastrous if you went there expecting to find an empty illusion and encountered her instead. Mostly, though, I wanted to see how you act in the face of adversity."

"And what demons I hide inside?" I asked, glaring at her.

"That, too. If there is one good thing about Holloway's craft, it's that it's good at exposing lies people tell themselves. Sometimes I wonder if it's intentional, or if she runs from her projects when they start reflecting her own face."

"So," I said. "Did you like what you saw?"

She smiled at me, her eyes cold and calculating. "You are a magus, Taylor. I wonder if you could be something more."

I sighed. "I'm too tired to deal with it."

"You'll have time to rest later. For now, let's see if there is anyone still alive around."

"Will there be?"

"No. But we'll look anyway."


	23. Emmie

AN: Because Uzumaki was not enough

* * *

**Emmie**

(Tomie crossover)

The school field trip was hell until Mister Gladly killed Emma, chopped her to pieces and gave each piece to my classmates with instructions to dispose of it across town. I've got Emma's head.

Nobody objected. Nobody said a word. Nobody screamed. As if a spell was cast on us all, changing the reality around us into a place where such events were acceptable.

Looking around, I saw girls looking vindictive and boys trying and failing to suppress smiles on their faces, which made them twitch as if their lips were caught on a wire someone was pulling from above.

Did I miss something, absorbed in my own troubles? I had to confess, sometimes I imagined Emma dead and gone. Even with my power, unimpressive as it was, it would be so easy to do. But... did everyone else feel the same? That couldn't be true, right? They followed Emma's lead, they laughed with her - at me, more often than not. They craved her favors and her attention.

Yet now they were standing here, overseeing a gruesome scene of murder, and smiled.

Did I look the same?

I looked at Emma's head. With a mole under her eye and long black hair, she was almost unrecognizable as a friend I once had. She's changed after that fateful summer. Both in personality and body.

For a few moments I stood there, transfixed. Then I put the head into a bag provided my Mister Gladly and started to walk, not looking back at my classmates, some of whom were discussing the best spots to hide body parts.

"Ugh, why does it keep happening?" a voice said after my classmates disappeared from view.

I stopped. I opened the bag. Emma's head looked at me with disapproval.

"Can you believe?" she said. "Every time I've got a man under my thumb, he ends up killing me. What a nuisance!"

"Indeed?" I managed to say.

"Well, obviously it's not something _you_ should ever worry about."

"Huh."

The head glared at me.

"Well?" she said.

"Well what?"

She sighed, as if I was dumb for not understanding. "I'm hungry. Aren't you going to feed me?"

I stared at her. "You're a severed head."

"And you're ugly," she said. "Everyone has flaws."

"So what, you want to drink my blood or something?"

"What?!" she shouted, appalled. "That's disgusting, Taylor! You're disgusting! I want some real food. Caviar or foie gras."

"I... don't think I can get something like that," I said eventually.

Emma pouted. "Fine. I shouldn't expect much from you. Just get me the best you can."

I nodded and closed the bag. The world didn't make sense anymore, but she at least seemed to know what she wanted.

* * *

"Ugh! How could be place me on such a hard surface?! Bring me a cushion!"

I sighed. The moment I came back to my room and extracted Emma from the bag, placing her on a table, she went back to complaining.

I fetched a cushion and placed her under the head, noticing that there was no blood anymore. The wound on the neck has closed and swelled.

"That's much better," she said. "Now, feed me."

I went to the kitchen and made some sandwiches, slicing them into tiny bits. Then I went back and gave one of them to Emma from a fork.

She took it and immediately spat out.

"That tastes like dog's food!" she shouted. "Get me some real food, now!"

I placed the fork back on a table and looked at Emma.

"Well?" she said.

"You know," I said slowly, tasting new idea. "It's not like I have to feed you. Or give you cushions. I have instructions to dump you somewhere in town."

She pouted. "I thought we were friends, Taylor."

"I thought you hated me."

"Oh, don't be silly. I don't hate you. You just... need to know your place, and I was showing you where you belong."

I stared at her, silent.

She pouted more. "Oh, fine, I'll eat your food."

"Without insulting me."

"Fine."

For some reason having her like that, under my control, made me feel happy.

* * *

Life settled into a routine. Some of Emma's body parts were found around town, the school was questioned, but by then a story I and my classmates were supposed to tell the police was created. Even though students from other classes told the police about Emma bullying me, placing me in a spotlight, Mister Gladly and the students stood by me, ensuring my alibi.

Not one of us talked. Not one of us was caught.

I was still planning on hitting the cape scene eventually, but it didn't feel as urgent now. There was an air of shared secret between me and my classmates. I was included in the conversations between girls now. Nothing important, for we never talked about Emma's fate, of which my bullying appeared to be a casualty, just everyday banter. I liked it.

Emma continued to be demanding and insufferable, but she was helpless without me. i liked that, too.

It wasn't going to last, of course: her body was growing each day, returning to its complete form, and soon she would be able to walk away from me.

For now, though, I could afford to wait before adding another secret to the pile.

Besides, my costume needed some reworking to make it more heroic. A spiral pattern, perhaps.

And so it went until one day I came back home to see my dad cradling Emma in his arms.

"Taylor!" she greeted me with a smile I didn't like one bit. "Why didn't you tell me Emma visits? I didn't see her in such a long, long time... You shouldn't hoard our guests all to yourself."

Emma giggled.

A fog came over my mind.

"Don't touch her!" I shouted, rushing to Dad and grabbing Emma - now the size of a toddler - from his arms.

He tried to stop me, but I summoned my bugs, erecting a wall between us. He shouted in surprise, and I ran to my room, barricading the door behind me with a chair.

"What are you doing?!" Emma shrieked.

"What are _you_ doing?!" I shouted back.

"You can't keep me in this gloomy room forever!" she shouted. "You don't take me on walks, your food is horrible and obviously you can't give me what I really need! I want out!"

I was silent as I summoned all of my spiders - the once staying in our basement and the ones distributed across nearby houses. I ordered them to weave a pattern more grand than anything I've attempted before. When they finished, web covered the entire room, sealing the door and the window, forming an elaborate system of traps that would catch any intruder. Nobody would enter or leave this room but me.

In the center of the web I placed Emma, suspended in a cocoon.

"At least it's silk," she said, pouting.

I sighed and feel on my bed, spiders scattering before me.

* * *

I grew to be twitchy and paranoid. Even though other girls continued to be friendly with me, I would often cut our conversations short, unable to concentrate on them, excuse myself and go back home to monitor Emma.

Dad made several attempts to get into my room. The defenses held so far, but I had to reinforce them each time. He would also plead with me to let him see Emma. Those were the longest conversations we had in a long time.

It didn't look like he was at all concerned over me being a parahuman.

I knew the situation couldn't continue like that for long. Something would have to give, and I was afraid I would have to do something... drastic.

Fortunately, it was taken out of my hands.

One day I came back home to see it in flames, Dad carried away by medics with a wound on his head. The police told me it was an arson, an attack. They suspected the gangs unhappy with the Dockworkers Union. I had a different theory.

* * *

"Oh, Taylor!" Dad said when I've got to him in a hospital. "It's horrible. Emma! We must find her, we must save her! Oh, Emma!"

I sighed and tried to talk with him about our plans, our life, knowing it would be futile.

When I left his room, I was approached by a policewoman.

"Miss Hebert?" she asked.

I nodded.

"If you don't mind me asking a few questions?"

I nodded again, going through a by now familiar routine.

"One more thing," she said at the end of our conversation. "Your father mentioned someone called Emma a few times when we tried to talk to him? He was very insisting on finding her..."

"Ah, yes," I said. Nearby bugs buzzed, and the policewoman waved a fly away from her face. "It's... our cat. Named after my friend. I thought it was funny at the time. Dad is very attached to her, and with the concussion, well, I think he may be fixated." I looked away.

"Oh," she said and patted me on a shoulder. "Well, cats often sense danger before people notice anything. There is a good chance she would turn up at some point, safe and sound."

"Yeah," I said, wondering about it.

* * *

When next I went to school, Emma was in the classroom, and she was not alone.

A dozen of Emmas were sitting across the room, each had a boy armed with a knife or a bat or a club or a taser by her side, watching the others.

When I walked in, Emmas turned to face me, little vicious smile repeated again and again.

That's when I started to laugh.


	24. Lockers to Some

.

**Lockers to Some...**

(Hellraiser crossover)

The door closed behind me, and I screamed. Not because of the smell suffocating me, not because of the blood soaking my clothes, making them clutch to my skin, not because of the darkness blinding me, allowing filth that surrounded me to grow inside my imagination.

I screamed because I felt a hand gripping my shoulder. A hand of someone standing right before me, even though there shouldn't be enough space for even me alone.

"You've solved the riddle, you've opened the door," a quiet voice said, effortlessly piercing through my screams. "You've stepped inside." With each word, a hellish light was oozing from the walls, not so much illuminating the locker as giving shape to shadows lurking inside. "And so I welcome you here, beyond the boundaries of mortal world." In this treacherous light I could see the pitch-black eyes looking at me from an unnaturally pale face with rows upon rows of long nails piercing its flesh. "Welcome, child," he said, a malicious smile playing on his lips. "I hope you are ready for your reward: an agony indistinguishable from pleasure."

I stopped screaming. Or at least I couldn't hear my screams anymore. I couldn't think straight, not when I felt blood on my skin, not when these eyes were showing me... showing me a reflection of me in a scene much more horrifying than what I was experiencing now. His hand was gripping my shoulder, and I knew without a shadow of doubt that this sensation was just a prelude to thousands hooks tearing into me, tearing my flesh into bits, allowing blood to flow freely, mixing with all the blood that was already here.

In a last ditch attempt to not lose my sanity, I tried to process what he was saying, to divine some sort of not escape, for escape was impossible, but meaning from his words.

"Riddle?" I asked in a cracked voice, my throat sore from screaming.

The malicious smile faded from his lips. "The Lament Configuration," he said. "A puzzle box opening the gates to us. You've solved it, you've opened the box."

"I didn't," I said, my voice flat.

He sighed, removed his hand from my shoulder and pinched a nail sticking from his nose.

"You did," he said. "It's just... some of the previous owners of the Lament Configuration weren't... very dedicated to using it for its intended purpose, so to speak."

"So?.."

"So someone broke it apart for spare parts to use in your locker mechanism!" he shouted, gesturing wildly and then cursing as his hands got stuck in the chains that were hanging around us.

"Oh," I said.

"Yes, 'oh'."

"So, ah, what now?" I asked, realizing I forgot - or didn't want to remember - what should happen next.

He looked at me and sighed again.

"I'm not in the mood anymore," he said. "Just... go. There should be an exit nearby, at Sigereth's."

With that, he disappeared and everything faded to black.


	25. Rapture

.

**Rapture**

(Berserk crossover)

Tears flowed freely down Emma's face which she could no longer touch.

She could no longer tell how long she was locked in her room. Sleeping, eating meals brought to her door, lying awake staring at nothing. No matter the state, she was always tormented by the memories of that moment, as the knife drew near her skin and made the first cut. Cutting her flesh, cutting her dignity, cutting her soul.

Leaving scars that would never heal.

She heard pleading voices behind the door. Her family still tried to reach her, even after all this time, not comprehending that she couldn't face them, couldn't face the world. She died that day, or perhaps she wished she had died, and now there was no place for her among the living.

She grabbed a pillow, intend to cover her head with it, creating another boundary between her and the world, and in the process her hand touched some small object.

Welcoming a distraction, so rare in her tomb, she brought it to her good eye. It took a few moments to blink away the tears and focus on what she held: a lucky charm brought to her by Taylor so long ago, in another world. It looked like an egg with eyes, nose and mouth splattered across it without rhyme or reason. She remembered finding it funny and charming once, but now... Now it just reminded her of her own fate.

Angrily, she threw the egg away before bursting into tears once again.

And the behelit screamed.

* * *

Taylor ran through the endless labyrinth. Each room she encountered was familiar, she saw them before, in her home, in Emma's, at school, at her father's work she visited a few times... But each of them was wrong. Broken, twisted, turned into a mad collage by someone who couldn't comprehend the importance of tiny little things scattered around these rooms making them welcoming.

The rooms were connected by long staircases stretching in all directions. Impossibly, Taylor had no troubles running on them, gravity being fluid in this place.

Between the rooms and staircases lied the void, as empty as it was hungry.

Taylor didn't know how long she was running. The labyrinth was twisting and turning, betraying any and all attempts at building a mental picture of it, yet somehow Taylor was sure she was running in a great spiral, each swirl slightly less wide, bringing her closer and closer to the center. She didn't know what waited for her there, but she had no choice other than keep running.

At some point, she started hearing voices. Echoes traveling through the labyrinths, following paths Taylor couldn't trace.

"...to be strong, to never be hurt again, to not be afraid?" One voice reminded her of her mother, opening a gaping wound in her chest she thought she healed. It reminded her of her father, too, and of Emma, of her teachers and the dockworkers visiting her home sometimes. It was the voice of affection.

And hidden malice.

"Is it... really possible?" Another voice could barely be heard, quiet and hoarse, a shadow of a sound.

"Yes... If you're willing to pay the price."

Taylor exited her room with all furniture being turned upside down, and found herself on a staircase overlooking five impossibly high pillars. One of them was empty. As for the rest...

Taylor caught her breath.

There was only one word to describe the figures standing on top of the pillars. Monsters.

"Anything!" The second voice said.

This time, Taylor was able to trace its source to the platform made out of Emma's room with its walls absent, hanging before the pillars without visible support.

A figure was crouching on a bed, looking up at the monsters.

"Emma!" Taylor shouted, recognizing her.

Emma looked up at her, startled. Taylor gasped catching a glimpse of ruined face desperately covered by hair.

Emma looked back at the pillars.

"No," she whispered.

Taylor looked around. She didn't know what was going on, whether it was a nightmare or a parahuman power or something far more sinister. All she knew is that she had to reach Emma before something horrible would happen, more horrible than whatever has left its mark on Emma's face.

Taylor jumped, flying through the cold void that cut her skin with hair-thin tendrils she couldn't feel until the blood flowed. She landed on top of a room on the spiral swirl closest to the platform, and for a few long agonized moments just laid here, trying to quench the pain. Slowly, shakily she stood up and started walking to the edge of the room. One more jump.

"Yes," the voice of fake affection said. "You have to cut ties if you want to ever stand by yourself. Your father was there when you've died. He didn't help you. Couldn't. Nobody can, not in your world of monsters and their followers. Your family was there afterwards to reassure you, to lure you with their sweet voices into the illusion of comfort and safety. You would feel safe again if you'd allow them to convince you, yes... Until next time you'll feel the edge of a knife."

Taylor fell on the platform behind Emma, making her jump and look back.

"Emma," Taylor said, trying to stand up. She didn't know what else to say.

Emma looked back and forth between Taylor and the monster on top of a pillar, her breaths fast and shallow. She brought a hand to her face to remove a stray lock of hair that fell on her eye, and froze once the hand touched her face.

"I..." she said. "I accept."

And the monster laughed.

Taylor felt unbearable pain in her neck and screamed.

Hell opened its maw and swallowed her whole, countless hands trying to tear her apart.

The last thing Taylor saw was Emma unable to look away from her, tears flowing freely down her now perfect porcelain face.

* * *

"I have to think about what's good for the team! It's... it's unfair to you, yes, but, look, we're pressured from all sides. This offer, this offer would allow our team to survive."

It was funny, Marissa thought in that haze preceding hysteria, how, standing in this garden of flesh and blood, the thing she regarded as the most unbelievable was words spouted by a person she thought her friend.

"We are the team, you bastard!" she shouted. "Listen to yourself! Are you seriously planning to sacrifice us for our own good?!"

Francis hid his face in his hands for a few moments, before shaking his head as if trying to wake up and looking straight at Marissa. His eyes were wide, his mouth twisted in a demented expression.

"Okey, fine," he said. "It's not for the team. It's for Noelle." He started to pace around, uncaring of what his feet were stepping on, his words louder with each step. "Do you think I don't know what you're all saying when I'm not around? 'Noelle is a liability.' 'Noelle will get us all killed.' 'She's not our Noelle anymore.' 'We should get rid of her once we have a chance.' Did you think I would stand for it?!" he shouted, pointing a shaking finger at Marissa.

"That's not true, and you know it," she said. They had... talks, but as long as there was hope... As long as there was hope, they would follow it.

"I have to do it," Francis said with a hollow touch of finality. "I'm sorry."

She looked at Luke for support, but he just stood there, staring at the insane landscape around them with unseeing eyes.

There was no escape from this madness but death.

There was no escape.

She had to do it.

Gathering her anger and desperation, Sundancer reached for her power, creating a sun hotter and brighter than ever before. Luke screamed, the sudden appearance of flame throwing him to what passed for the ground in this place, but Sundancer paid him little mind. Her target was before her.

Trickster was blind from her light, unable to use his own power. If she moved fast enough, the nightmare would end. She and Luke would survive.

For the first time in her life, Sundancer was prepared to kill.

And then the sun was swallowed by the void, leaving her cold, empty and alone.

She looked at her hands, uncomprehending. Where flames danced a moment ago, there were shallow hair-thin cuts with blood slowly welling from them. She fell on her knees as if she was a marionette with her strings cut. She tried to speak, but only reddish foam left her mouth.

"Now, my dear," a grotesquely fat man occupying on the pillars said. "It's rude to interrupt such an important moment."

"So," another man, this one resembling an aborted embryo, said. "Do you agree, Trickster?"

"Y-yes," Trickster said, blinking tears from his eyes. Whether they were caused by light or something else, Marissa didn't know.

"I still don't think it's fair," a woman with a pair of bat wings, whose voice sent shivers down Marissa's spine, said. "What power is there in bonds broken for another bond? He'd still be chained."

"God is merciful," a man on the central pillar said. "Even impure motives can lead to salvation by His will. But God is also just. The sinner before us desires not personal salvation, but the power to save another, and so two souls will be claimed in their place. It is decided."

With that, an unnatural silence fell upon the garden. Before Marissa's eyes, the skies parted, and a great worm made out of human bodies desperately clinging to each other descended, preparing to swallow her and Luke. As it drew closer, a serpent of exposed bone tied together with thin muscles and pulsating veins oozing blood emerged, its maws parting to show misshapen crooked teeth, both human and animal in form.

Marissa couldn't look away as she faced her approaching death, yet the serpent didn't reach for her. It twisted in the air instead, striking at Trickster's chest and clawing out his heart in mere moments.

As he fell down, clutching the wound with his hands in denial of his mortality, the worm fell apart, turning into quickly dissipating fog.

In its place stood a figure clad in crude bone armor resembling an insect carapace, with parts of rotting flesh still clinging to it. The serpent served as the left hand of the figure, though it, too, soon fell apart, leaving behind only a stump.

The figure looked at Trickster, looked at Marissa and Luke still lying here. And then it laughed, a broken sound scraping against Marissa's brain.

"You dare to mock the sacred ceremony?" the woman with the voice of sweet malice snarled. "I should enjoy teaching you your proper place."

The figure turned to face the pillars, allowing Marissa to see a long bone spike sticking out of its skull where there was a hole in its armor.

"I know the rules," the figure said, and her voice was vaguely feminine. "You have no power in this world but the one people give you. Your Apostle is dead. You'll have to leave, and I will stay, taking his life for my own."

"You are marked," the grotesquely fat man said. "Wherever you go, you will be followed. Thin walls between the worlds will rip open at your mere presence, giving us more ground with your every step. You can't run forever."

"I've survived Hell. Do your worst, and still I will kill every one of your Apostles, sever every tendril of Fate your God uses to crawl into my world."

"You truly think..." the man resembling an embryo started to say, but the man on the central pillar raised his hand, silencing him.

"You will fall," he said.

"I'm not afraid of your threats."

"Is is not a threat. Not a promise, not an oath, or a malediction or a curse. Inevitability. You will fall, and in doing so, you will doom your world."

"We'll see about it," the woman in bone armor said, but her words were hollow.

With that, she knelt before Trickster's body and found the screaming egg that started it all. She swallowed it, and the garden of flesh was no more, disappearing like a mirage and leaving Marissa, Luke, the woman and Trickster's body in the house where they stayed that night.

Marissa found her strength returning to her. Slowly, she crawled on her knees and checked Luke. He was mostly unharmed, but unresponsive to her touch and to her words, staring at the ceiling and breathing shallow breaths.

"Luke," she whispered. "Luke, it's over. Say something, please."

He didn't move.

She couldn't deal with it. Not now, not when she was still processing what just happened to them.

But there was something she could do, someone who can give her answers.

She looked at the woman, who was still kneeling besides Trickster, tracing trails of his blood with her one hand.

"Who... who are you?" Marissa asked. The woman didn't answer.

Marissa stood on her shaking feet.

"What's going on?" She tried again, and again there was no response.

She walked towards the woman, anger slowly welling inside of her. It was easier to be angry than afraid.

"I'm talking to you!" she shouted, making a grab for the woman. But bone and flesh parted before her hand, making her stumble through the woman, who didn't even change her pose.

Marissa crawled back, and didn't say anything more.

The woman continued to study Trickster's blood, which was moving before her touch, flowing into arcane patterns.

"Emma," she said eventually in a tone Marissa couldn't read.

She stood up, smeared the arcane patterns with her foot, and walked to a window. On her back delicate wings like that of a dragonfly unfolded, their translucent beauty contrasting with the rest of her armor. Flesh and bones flowed down her stump, briefly forming a serpentine construct and breaking the window.

The woman flew away, leaving Marissa among the shards of broken glass.


	26. Color of Heartache

.

**Color of Heartache**

(The Void crossover)

"Watch where you're going!" Emma said, shoving me out of her way.

There was no sting in her words. She looked like all color was drained from her, with an exception of pronounced dark bags under her eyes.

She wanted to say something more, but yawned instead, not even bothering to cover her mouth. Her gaze wandered away from me, and soon she followed, moving as if she was in a trance.

Recently, everyone was tired by the end of schooldays, the corridors were filled with lifeless dolls, which nobody bothered to paint, staggering forward by inertia more than intent.

I was no different from them, my face becoming paler than usual, my eyes bloodshot to the point half of one was solid red, my baggy gray clothes weighting me down as if I was carried a coffin on my back.

For once, I felt like I was fitting in here. Not because people were friendly to me or anything like that, but because nobody paid attention. To me or each other. It was a surreal experience, as if everyone in school died and didn't notice, following the routine that had no meaning anymore.

Yet even now I wasn't truly a part of the group because I knew how to fix it. For me, if for nobody else.

I walked to my locker and opened it to the familiar sight of a steadily beating crimson heart growing inside. It was standing on top of its veins, intertwined with each other to form a strong trunk. I knew they went farther than just the locker, growing over the whole school as a grotesque root system. Its arteries were all here, though, forming a small crown and ending in bright, almost shining crimson fruits, a cure for my ailment.

Picking a fruit I thought was ripe, I looked at it for a few moments. I knew that the heart was responsible for what was happening in school. Somehow, it was draining the strength of people here. They looked fine in the morning, but it couldn't be good for them. Something should be done about it, but...

I was the only one who could see it. I tried pointing it out to a teacher back when I first encountered it, and just got asked if maybe I need a few more days to recover after what happened. They cleared my locker, they said, there was nothing here anymore. And when I tried to do something about it myself, it _hurt_. It hurt like nothing else did in my entire life.

I couldn't do anything about it. Nobody else could even see what was wrong.

So, it wasn't wrong for me to gain something from it, right?

I bit the fruit, and my body was filled with fire. I felt my blood igniting with each beat of the crimson heart. My vision sharpened, my thoughts cleared. I took my first free breath this day, burdened by nothing at all.

I was light.

I was life.

I was fire.

I laughed, uncaring that grey shadows of other students could hear me, uncaring that it was their life I ate.

They deserved it, anyway. They had no idea what an awesome existence they had, preferring instead to wallow in their petty misery. To hell with Emma who betrayed and tormented me! To hell with Sophia who took her away from me! To hell with Madison and all the rest of their flunkies who joined the fun because they had nothing better in their lives! To hell with teachers who could or would do nothing! To hell with my father who pushed me to tell him what was going on, making me think about it, making me feel guilty for not telling him, yet not pushing hard enough to actually get the answers! And to hell with Greg who is kinda creepy!

And if this hell was of my own making somehow, so be it.

Taking a bite from another fruit and riding the wave of warmth spreading all over my body, I took a sheet of paper and wrote just one word on it: Emma. I breathed at the paper, and the letters ignited with crimson.

My steps light, I strolled to Sophia's locker and slipped the note inside. She would find and read it, and her mind would be clouded with rage towards Emma. She wouldn't know the reason, she probably wouldn't even remember reading the note.

Giggling, I walked back, dancing around ghosts populating this place. They watched me with hunger and longing in their eyes before returning to their grey existence, my colors slipping their minds as my shadow swallowed them.

They were so blind, they couldn't see the veins running through the walls, forming a web covering the whole building. They couldn't even see their own colors, tiny sparks lingering in their chests after the best part was taken by my crimson heart.

So, it was right to reap them.

Speaking of...

I went to my locker and reached for the heart, opening it and letting myself fall apart in streams of bright crimson light. When I could see again, I stood in my inner sanctum: a cave existing in a constant state of becoming. Waves of crimson and azure light washed the cave at regular intervals, bringing changes. Crimson and azure flowers bloomed all over the ground, only to wither and die with the change of light. Azure streams ran in a web around me, gathering in small pools, and when crimson light touched them, the fluid boiled, filling the air with colorful steam, which would then turn into rain in the azure light, falling on the ground and changing the movement of streams. Small critters similar to worms and insects squirmed under my feet and filled the air, chasing flowers and each other.

With each heartbeat the world was melted to be forged again, in a shape just a bit closer to perfection.

And in the center of everything stood an azure tree with a heart steadily beating in the middle, defining the rhythm of the waves. From its crown azure fluid was falling, giving birth to the streams, and its roots moved underground, giving it shape.

I remembered how this heart came to be. I always felt so tired after that event, so drained of life. And the bullying continued. More subdued than before, more cautious, but no less vicious.

I couldn't face it. The only thing that helped me go through the day was crimson fire I consumed, but the heart was so small back then, its fruits so tiny. I wanted to be constantly near it, to squeeze every drop of divine fluid from its arteries, but I couldn't be anywhere near the locker without risking drawing the attention of my bullies.

And so I reached inside. Even though the previous time I've touched the hart, when I tried to torn it out, resulted in agony, I reached inside, trying to get just a bit more of the crimson fire. I found this cave instead, hidden inside the heart. For a long time, I simply lied here, catching drops of crimson falling from above on me, thinking what to do.

And then they stopped. I think it was the end of a school day. People left, depriving me of their life, leaving me alone in the dark.

I couldn't face it, dealing with it day after day, living for scraps of life that were just leaving me yearn for more.

And so I gathered the last drops of crimson and formed a razor out of them.

There was no blood. Azure liquid flowed from my veins, saturating the cave. A pool formed around me, and from that pool a sprout of heart slowly grew. It's slow beating lulled me to sleep.

I didn't die that day, I'm not sure I can anymore. And afterwards, everything became better. I had two sources of color, and they were growing bigger by day, their roots crawling around the school. Now, I didn't even need to consume everything they produced.

I still drank the azure water, which quenched the fire in my blood and brought clarity.

It was petty of me, what I did to Sophia. Petty and pointless. People hurt me, but it was useless to hurt them back. I was already taking their life, and I had responsibility to give it back. Better than before, free of suffering they inflicted on me.

For better or worse, people of this school were mine.

Slowly, I walked to the corner of the cave where I stashed some of my things. My journals with every injustice inflicted upon me carefully recorded were there, each word outlined in azure now and crossed out in crimson. Some of the pages were ripped out by me, and I did it again now, whistling to call the critters closer. I fed the pages to them, whispering the names of people they would have to find and borrow into their heads. Nobody would see them, nobody would notice them squirming inside their minds, but once they dissolve, my litany of sins would mix with stray thoughts, becoming a law as fundamental as the need to breathe.

None would be able to do these things for as long as blood flows in their veins.

And so the cycle of suffering would be broken.

And so the life taken would be given back, better than ever before.

And so a better world could be created.

Of course, my diaries were just the first step. Personal suffering paving a way to wisdom. I would need to work on creating my own doctrine that would be the foundation of coming paradise. I would...

Something was wrong.

I felt an alien presence in my sanctum, a place that was supposed to be unreachable and safe.

I jumped up and looked around. A figure emerged from the shadows at the edge of the cave, where the entrance from the crimson heart was located. It was a cross between a human and a machine, black mechanical parts seamlessly blending with violet flesh. Crimson veins could be seen underneath, pulsating with each movement. The figure was perfect in design and motion, yet something was not right. It felt unreal, like a painting brought to life without adding proper perspective. My eyes hurt just from looking at it.

Where its head should have been, there was a violet whirlpool, and inside a woman's face could be seen. With her dark hair, grey eyes and thin pale lips, she seemed almost monochrome in contrast with the plethora of color and light surrounding her.

She crossed her eyes with mine and smiled, her features turning ephemeral for a moment, like a dream that was strikingly clear and yet incomprehensible for waking mind.

"Greetings, sister," she said. Her lips moved, but it was the construct making the sound, countless pipes whistling, forming the words from dissonant noise. Crimson steam emerged from them, filling the air and disturbing the established cycle. "You have a lovely garden."

"Who are you?" I asked. I didn't like her smile, I didn't like her eyes, and most of all I didn't like the violet color. It made my heart ache.

"Amanda Holloway. I'm the keeper of the Boardwalk."

"Keeper?" I asked, slowly walking to place myself between her and my heart.

"A person like you."

"You're not like me," I said with more venom that I expected.

"No," she said. "Our exterior is similar, but in the heart of hearts... Still, much like you, I died. And, much like you, I returned back, bringing gifts of color and life from below."

"What?" I blinked. "I'm not dead."

"You don't know?" she asked. "Don't you remember? The fall, the dying world losing its colors, the ascent back?"

I didn't respond.

What she was talking about couldn't be true.

I was locked, fainted, then someone opened the door.

That was it.

I didn't remember anything she talked about: no fall, no dark void, no well with the spiral staircase, no ascent.

So, it wasn't real.

Her smile grew wider from my silence.

"What are you doing here?" I asked eventually.

"I was curious who was responsible for the garden that grows in this school, so I've sent one of my unborns to investigate. It found your heart open. In our circles, it counts as an invitation. "

"You're not welcome here," I said.

"Yes, I can see that now. Your pedestal of suffering doesn't permit abstractions."

"So, are you going to leave?"

She was silent for a few moments, looking around.

And then every pipe of her construct screamed at once, filling the cave with violet smoke.

My own scream followed the pipes', a pale echo even I couldn't hear.

The smoke was poison, to me and to the cave itself. Flowers withered where it touched them, water turned to mist, dissipating instantly, critters died or worse, were changed into violet ones, light itself grew dimmer.

Hurt and confused, I tried to reach the construct, to strike at it, to make it stop, but vague shapes emerged from the smoke all around me, shadows and illusions solid enough to harm me yet turning back into smoke the moment I tried to fight back. Bit by bit, my sanctum, my world was swallowed by the foreign force, and with each piece of it disappearing, I could feel growing snarl of pain where my heart should have been.

This battle couldn't be won by physical means, for the physical world has betrayed me. And so I reached within me, to the crimson rage that still boiled in my blood. A crimson scythe appeared in my hand, and the illusions around me shattered.

The violet smoke still filled the air, creeping closer to my heart, but around me there now was a clear space.

I could breathe again.

I could live again.

I walked towards the construct rising my scythe, withered flowers returning to life under my feet as the colors bled from countless shallow wounds.

The violet smoke stopped coming from the pipes.

Violet flesh unfolded, crimson veins burst, and thousands crimson tendrils reached for me.

I tried to block them, tried to cut them with my weapon, but they went through it as if it wasn't there, piercing my flesh, filling my empty chest and ripping me apart.

I fell on the ground, my arm still holding the dissolving scythe lying away from me, my guts spilled on the ground, color leaking from them giving life to flowers and depriving me of it.

The construct stood above me, Holloway's face still smiling, her teeth were bare now.

"Azure," she said. "What a garish color. Suffering and fear, never liked it. I think I'll just destroy it, leaving only your crimson heart. Don't worry, you won't die. You can't, anymore. You'll just become mine and will tend to the heart, gathering lymph for me."

With that, the construct started to move towards my heart, violet smoke again flowing from its pipes.

I wanted to cry. All I went through, all I've learned, all I've planned - all was meaningless. She was going to destroy me, to destroy everything that made me who I was, and all I could do was to lie here, watching azure and crimson that replaced my blood mix.

I didn't cry. I screamed instead. Who was she to dismiss my whole life so casually? Who was she to attack me in my own sanctum?

She was nothing, and I will reduce her to nothing!

Crimson spears fell from the skies, striking everything in the cave: the construct, the critters, the heart, me.

Rage and pain became one in my scream, until everything went black.

* * *

I came to my senses slowly, returning from viscous nightmare filled with creeping shadows licking me, stripping me of life bit by bit.

I coughed, my throat raw, every breath painful. In contrast, my body felt strangely numb and light.

Memories flooded my mind, and I sat up abruptly, my eyes fixing on the heart. It was still shining with azure light, though its rhythm was irregular now, pained. Its roots were broken, torn out of the ground here and there, leaving behind deep scars. Most flowers were dead, most pools tainted with violet and stale. Still, here and there were islands of life. Critters still buzzed in the air, if not as plentiful as before.

I looked around, searching for the construct. I found its scattered remnants near the heart. The whirlpool was still swirling, though at least there was no more of violet smoke.

I tried to stand up and fell back on the ground, my body awkward and almost foreign. I tried again, slowly this time, and managed to get on my knee.

In the process I noticed my arm still lying on the ground, severed, even though I didn't feel the loss.

I looked at myself and so branches replacing my flesh where it was torn apart. Crimson veins could be seen, shining through the wood. I moved my new fingers. They worked fine.

I shrugged, my new flesh creaking. It wasn't worth thinking about right now.

Swaying a bit, I walked to the whirlpool. Holloway's face could still be seen in it, back to her monochrome plain self. White noise filled the edges around her, spreading slowly.

When she noticed me, crimson letters appeared on violet surface.

_You're finally awake._

She couldn't speak without her pipes, it seemed.

I prepared to step on her.

_Wait! There is something we need to discuss._

"What makes you think I want to talk to you?" I asked, not lowering my foot.

_I thought you weak when you were merely inexperienced. Continuing to fight would be unwise. It would cost both of us too much, potentially._

I looked around at the devastated cave, my eyes narrowing.

"And what do you propose?"

_A meeting. On neutral grounds, of course. You've heard about the labyrinth in the central park, yes? Violet and silver, crimson and amber. It was created by two of our sisters and sometimes serves as a meeting place for us. Of course, you're free to suggest an alternative, if you wish._

"I don't think there is anything to discuss," I said. "Don't come here ever again, and I won't come after you. Simple as that."

_That's not how it works. Boundaries must be set between us, rules established. Otherwise, a conflict is inevitable, for we both strive towards the same goal._

"That being?" The mere suggestion we had anything in common...

Her smile was back, her face taking on unreal, phantasmal features.

The letters that appeared then were thick enough with color to overcome the white noise and fill the whole whirlpool.

_To reshape the world._

* * *

AN: Rather loosely based on the game. More a source of inspiration than anything.


	27. An Offer You Can't Refuse

AN: Kicking the writer's block in the teeth with a drabble by the power of determination. 100 words exactly, not counting the title.

* * *

**An Offer You Can't Refuse**

(Worm/Undertale)

Lisa observed a long procession of people bound in spiderweb being dragged to Taylor's makeshift stand and being forced to part with their money in exchange for similarly web-covered merchandise.

She looked at Taylor then and said one word: "Why?"

Taylor sighed. "Remember my little trip down the portal?"

"The one you refused to talk about, yes."

"Well, I've made a deal during it."

"What, like deal with a devil?"

"Worse, a businesswoman. A business-spider-woman."

Lisa blinked.

"Ah..." she said eventually.

"So now I have to promote her merchandise." Taylor said, kicking her stand. _"Or the spiders would kill me."_


	28. Grasping at Miracles

.

**Grasping at Miracles**

(Unknown Armies fusion)

Kenta walked leisurely towards an abandoned office building where his subordinate took her residence. The building has seen better days: cracks ran all over the walls, most windows were broken or never had glass in them to begin with, a part of the building has collapsed onto itself, threatening to collapse the whole thing one of those days. It was never finished before being left alone to the elements, either, and metal planks reached from the fourth floor to the sky like broken fingers trying to grasp the sun.

Nobody except Kenta and its sole resident ever came there, not even animals, for the very walls of the buildings were emanating pure terror, which would build up and up inside whoever dared to approach it until they fled in mindless panic.

Kenta felt the building terror, too, and so he activated a little device inside his pocket that would shield his mind.

Walking briskly now, he crawled through a hole in the fence surrounding the building and made his way to an unlocked door. He fetched out a flashlight before stepping inside, as there was no light on the first two floors.

He moved carefully up the stairs, mindful of concrete threatening to break under his feet as well as a few traps that would turn him inside out should he make a wrong step.

Finally, he reached his destination on the third floor: the only habitable area here, and the only place that was lit by gas lamps hanging around. He opened the door to the familiar workshop of his subordinate littered with partially constructed devices he had no chance to comprehend only to be greeted by the sight of a woman wearing a gas mask and pointing a strange-looking gun at him with one hand, while another clutched what looked like a grenade.

"Who are you and what are you doing here?" the woman asked in a monotone, her voice distorted by the mask. "Answer quickly."

Kenta sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"You did it again, didn't you, Chloe?" he said with mild frustration. He raised his hands when the woman, Chloe, gestured with a gun at him. "I'm Kenta, we work together for Mak Attax."

"Yeah, right," Chloe said. "I'm seeing you for the first time."

Kenta sighed again. "You were working on something over the weekend, didn't you? And you needed more mojo than you had for it."

Chloe hesitated slightly, gun wavering. "Maybe," she said. "So, you're saying I used my memories about you for my project?"

Kenta nodded.

"How would I know you speak the truth?" Chloe said in a challenging tone, though her gun was slightly lowered now.

"You still remember Lee, right?" Kenta asked.

"Yeah."

"Well, call him. He'd confirm the story."

Slowly, Chloe made her way to a table at the back of the workshop, put her grenade there and reached for an old-fashioned phone with far too many buttons. She dialed a number and waited for a response, which came after only two rings.

"Hey, Lee?" she said. "It's me, need some help here. Do you know a guy called Kenta? Big, athletic, dragon tattoos on both arms?" She listened to the phone for awhile before saying, "Okay, thanks. See you in a bit."

She hang the phone and lowered her gun.

"So, I guess you're right. Alright then, what did you want here?"

"We were going to see Lee's performance about this time," Kenta answered.

"Yeah, that makes sense. Give me a minute to change?"

Kenta nodded, turning around.

"I'll wait for you at the entrance. Need a smoke."

Not waiting for a reply, he made his way back out of the building, stopping in the doorway and fetching a cigarette out of his pocket. He sighed again before lighting it. He actually liked Chloe most of the time. She was smart, passionate, headstrong, and her inventions saved his skin on more than one occasion. The price her magick extracted from her, however, made it difficult to maintain any kind of friendship with her since it could just disappear any day if she felt like building something fancy at the time. He didn't hold it against her, not really. While he had no intention of ever becoming an adept himself, he could respect sacrificed they made for the sake of obtaining their miracles. Still, between her and Lee, sometimes it felt like he was the only sane person around, caught in a whirlpool of madness.

Of course, discovering that whirlpool was the whole point...

He was distracted from his thoughts and a second cigarette by the arrival of Chloe, who has abandoned her gas mask and leather apron in favor of a more casual attire full of pockets concealing various devices.

Kenta nodded at her.

"Let's go," she said.

They walked in silence for some time, making their way along familiar streets of Brockton Bay and carefully avoiding artificial ruins of stairwells leading nowhere that filled the city recently - an art project that the mayor approved for some reason despite numerous public complaints.

Kenta didn't look where he was going, legs carrying him along the well-trodden path on their own. Instead, he looked at the people around him, searching for the tell-tale look he saw so often in the mirror before arriving in this, a look of someone on the verge of discovering the greatest secret this world had to offer yet not knowing that was the case. Sometimes, he did notice it. A street artist whose caricatures resembled her clients not at all yet reflected something deeper about them, a homeless man staring inside a beer bottle like it contained the answers for questions he didn't know he asked, a businesswoman far too well-dressed for this part of the city, a fake smile plastered on her lips that didn't reach her eyes with dark circles under them that no make-up could hide - all of them were reflection of the person Kenta once was. All of them had a potential to discover the Occult Underground one day, to be swallowed by it like himself.

They were his people, the only people he could truly tell his own, and one day, he was sure, he would welcome them in this world of madness and miracles.

Until then, however, he had other matters to attend to.

"So," Chloe finally broke the silence, "mind telling me about yourself? Fill the blanks."

"We're co-workers," Kenta said. "I'm the leader of our group."

Chloe snorted, though her expression turned thoughtful.

"Actually, that does make sense," she said. "I still have memories of my work, of course, and I do remember taking someone else's lead. It couldn't be Lee, naturally, so I guess, unless I've forgotten someone else, you were the one calling the shots."

Kenta nodded.

"Why did you need these memories this time, anyway?" he asked.

Chloe shrugged. "Needed a new galvanic machine. The old one's on its last breath."

"You know, instead of making it more complicated than needed, you could just use your college memories," Kenta said. "They should pack quite a lot of mojo."

"No!" Chloe hissed ferociously. "Look, I get that forgetting you was inconvenient and shit, but frankly? I don't care. It's my memories, and I'm going to sacrifice as many of them as it takes for the sake of my craft. But what happened in college? That's going to stay with me. Even if I forget everything else, that is one thing I will keep. To remember why I'm here, why I'm doing this, why the present must be demolished to make way for the future of my own making!" She was shouting by the end of her tirade, attracting stares of bystanders. neither her nor Kenta paid them any mind.

Kenta looked at Chloe, deep in thought. He knew her story, of course, she ranted about it often enough, but until now he failed to make the connection between it and her craft that should have been obvious in retrospect. He blamed her constant lapses in memory that prevented him from forming a genuine connection with her for that.

"Alright," he said, "I get it."

She quirked an eyebrow at him. "You're a clockworker as well? Or another type of adept?"

"No, but I do get it." He turned away from her, looking ahead, his eyes clouded by the memory of that moment that turned his whole life around and made him flee his friends, his country and his self.

She snorted, but didn't say anything. The rest of the walk was filled with more innocuous questions about Kenta. Chloe dismissed his insistence that she owned him twenty bucks for a lost bet about whether Lee was going to snap this month and kill everyone with a fork. Kenta shrugged and made a new bet with her, hoping she wasn't going to forget him or Lee this time around.

* * *

The cheap apartment was empty and clattered at the same time. Walls lacked any kind of wallpaper to conceal their depressing gray color, the furniture was sparse, obviously picked on the basis of absolute necessity rather than convenience or comfort. Not a single thing was out of order: no opened books left around to read later, no coffee mags were forgotten on the table, which itself lacked any stains you'd expect from someone living alone. There were no television, no radio, no posters on the walls, no odd souvenirs any home seemingly accumulated by itself, no carelessly thrown clothes, no plants to break the monotony of grayness and, of course, no pets.

In short, the apartment completely lacked any signs of living presence and would have normally appeared to contain vast emptiness despite its small size.

Yet, that wasn't the case.

The only decoration, which pushed the apartment from depressing to bizarre, was three hundreds thirty three masks placed in neat rows on the walls. All exquisitely made, they looked like actual faces of humans and beasts removed from living bodies, with life still clinging to them, animating what should have been unmoving objects. Some were plain porcelain white, while others were adorned with various symbols: national flags, wings, Joker, crown and many others.

Their presence filled the room, suffocating, demanding attention, yet never returning it, for their eyes were seemingly fixed on a small hunched man standing in the middle and clutching another mask, a cheap cardboard cutout, in his hands.

"Hello, Lee," Kenta greeted the man."You ready?"

Lee nodded. "Today I will perform Stranger's monologues," he said in a listless voice, holding his mask a bit higher.

Kenta gestured for him to start, then frowned at Chloe, who managed to snatch the sole chair in the room for herself and looked rather smug. Kenta shrugged and went to sit on the mattress in the corner, mindful not to lean on the masks on the wall behind him.

Lee placed his cardboard mask on his face and started to recite a monologue that was clearly taken from a middle of a play Kenta was unfamiliar with. Lee provided no explanation or context, as was usual for him.

As Lee went on, his voice grew stronger, gaining sinister undertones befitting the subject matter, carrying dozens of meanings in each word and filling each dramatic pause with a dozen more implications.

Kenta found himself caught in the act, despite still not knowing anything about the plot or who the character Lee played was. That, too, was usual. Lee could only be alive when he wasn't Lee.

Only after the performance drew to a close and Lee's voice faltered on "I wear no mask" line did Kenta realize that four hours have passed. He politely applauded along with Chloe, while Lee took his mask from his face and continued to simply stand where he was, less animated than the occupants of the walls.

"So, you did it?" Chloe asked once silence became awkward.

"Yes," Lee said simply.

"Tomorrow's the day then," Kenta said, standing up and stretching his legs.

"Night," Chloe corrected. "We're working night shift tomorrow."

Kenta shrugged and turned to leave, waving Lee farewell, Chloe falling into step behind him. They left the apartment, leaving Lee standing among the masks staring at him, while his gaze was settled on nothing.

* * *

Kenta stood under familiar golden arks overshadowed by Stamatin's Polyhedron tower looming over the city in the distance even though it still was under construction, smoke slowly rising from his lips into the crisp night air.

Three years have passed since he started working here. He didn't plan it. The work was undignified, and the pay was miserable. It was supposed to be a temporary measure, a way to get some cash while he was making himself familiar with the city and its more shady side, searching for an opportunity. A way to settle down before before he could move up in the world.

He had such elaborate plans, too. Find a gang looking for new recruits, big enough that its members weren't all bound by personal connections, small enough that its structure wasn't too rigid, make himself part of it, find dissonant voices, use them as a power base to take over, look for weak targets to convince the rest in the benefits of his leadership and expand...

He could have made a name for himself, a name that would have been feared and respected. He could have lived in relative luxury instead of having to share his tiny apartment with two obsessive gamers who kept him up late at night with loud noises coming from their computer that easily penetrated thin walls. He could have...

Well, it was all a moot point now. He met Chloe and Lee, he has found the Occult Underground, and instead of riches and rep he got answers to the questions that gnawed at him ever since that far-away day when all his old friends were killed and he himself was spared on the whim by that woman who called him her throwing dice...

He didn't know if the exchange was fare, he didn't know if he would have been happier in that other potential life, but he knew he couldn't go back to it anymore. Miracles have ensnared him, replacing natural fear and denial with longing for the world where humans could reshape reality with the power of their desires.

He saw the living mirror of heaven, and his face was forever reflected in it, taking with it a part of his soul.

That was why he worked for Mak Attax, flipping burgers day after day and sometimes infusing them with Lee's magick. He didn't truly believe in the ideals of the occult revolution, like Chloe did, not really. He knew enough about magick and basic human nature to understand that their current methods would get them nowhere, probably killed by Sleepers or FBI or Vatican long before they could make any real difference.

But... they came closest to getting what this world was all about. Not petty power struggles, not endless quest for coin or fame, but rejection of common sense in favor of the world of pure potential, the world of our desires. They distributed miracles to random people like it was nothing, and that made them worth Kenta's time more than any other cabal he has encounter.

Kenta looked again at the golden arcs again. It was his as much as it was anyone's, and, despite everything, it was the only place where he felt right.

He finished his cigarette and turned to go back from his break when a voice called for him.

"Oh, Kenta!" The voice belonged to a thin, almost skeletal man in a cheap suit, whom Kenta easily recognized.

"Danny," he greeted, waiting for the man to came closer before shaking his hand.

Danny was a union spokesman who occasionally visited Kenta's joint, usually on nights like this, when his work ran late and he had little energy left to cook his own dinner. The two men chatted occasionally, more out of boredom and the need to fill the silence than real companionship. Still, Kenta was somewhat fond of the man. He had that same look Kenta was always searching for. Perhaps today...

"How have you been?" Danny asked.

"Not bad." Kenta shrugged. "Yourself?"

Danny signed. "The usual," he said, grimacing and pointing in the general direction of Polyhedron. "I've no idea what the mayor is thinking. With the amount of money the city - I'm not even saying anything about private investors - spent on that man's pet project, we could have put a real dent on the boat graveyard issue! It doesn't even create new job openings, they bring people outside, you know?"

Kenta nodded politely. "Tough," he said.

"You can say that." Danny chuckled weakly before signing. "Sometimes I think I'm the only one who sees that the city's dying. Honestly, building ruins all over like there aren't enough ruined building around already!" He shook his head before focusing on Kenta's face again. "Oh, but don't mind my ramblings. Were you leaving?"

"No, was on break. You coming in?"

"Yeah. Serve me the usual?"

Kenta nodded. "Sure."

They walked to the main building before separating their ways when Kenta went for the employees entrance. Lee was working in the back, as usual, and Kenta told him Danny's order.

"Make it special," Kenta added. "Follow him afterwards for tonight and tomorrow, call us if needed. You know the drill."

"Yes," Lee said before plucking on of his hairs to be added to the food.

Kenta smiled. Tonight the Occult Underground would find another soul.

* * *

Danny supposed he should have been grateful for the pain. It meant he was alive, for one thing, and probably not paralyzed. It also somewhat distracted him from... from what happened.

Still, it was hard to be appreciative when his everything hard, he couldn't see from one eye or move his right arm or leg at all, locked in casts as they were. Hours passed with Danny just laid there, unable to move, not doing everything but listening to the sounds of medical machinery attached to him, as painkillers were slowly wearing off and the pain intensified, driving hot needles into his flesh, mapping his entire nervous system with each heartbeat, scattering his thoughts.

Did he prefer the pain or the memory of that incident to occupy the whole of his mind? It was hard to tell, the balance shifting with each labored breath.

Eventually, the monotony was broken by his daughter rushing to his side. Taylor threw herself at him, hugging him tightly, hot tears dampening the bandages on the right side of his face.

"Dad!" she said, her voice choked. "Wh- I- Are you- No, will-" Fragments of words drowned in her cries, her body convulsing with each sob, resonating in his flesh and driving hot needles deeper. He didn't mind.

"It's alright, Taylor," he whispered, slowly rising his left hand to pet her head. "It's all going to be alright. Doctors say the chances of full recovery are good, and I may even play piano again." He chuckled weakly at his own joke while Taylor continued to sob.

Finally, after what felt like a long time, she gathered herself and uncurled herself from him before sitting on a chair beside his bed.

"What..." Taylor said rubbing at her eyes and visibly getting her emotions under control. "What happened?"

"It was..." Danny took a sharp breath before closing his eyes and exhaling deeply. "It was an accident," he lied. "I...went for groceries, was lost in thoughts over, you know, Polyhedron and our appeal to the mayor, and, well, there was a car, I didn't notice in time..."

He couldn't tell her the truth. He couldn't tell her that he was woken by a telephone call from Annette, continuing their last argument like nothing has happened, like she wasn't... And then she was screaming, her voice piercing the sounds of screeching tires and crashing metal, and without thought he found himself running to the place where she... where she last was, only to be intercepted halfway there by a random car. It was madness, pure and simple, months - years now, he supposed - of grief finally getting to him and nearly taking him away from his daughter as well. Once this ordeal was over, he should seek professional help, assuming he could afford it after paying current medical bills.

"Oh, Dad," Taylor said and fell into silence, clearly trying and failing to find words.

"It's alright," he said, smiling weakly. "I told you, I'm going to be fine. I promise. I..." His voice broke and he coughed violently, his whole body resonating with pain. But he needed to say those words, and so he gathered himself, pushing the pain aside and taking control over his lung back. "I won't leave you."

Taylor nodded, tears running freely on her face, though she was smiling a tentative, unsure smile that was so strange to see on her.

"Yes," she said eventually. "I know. It's a promise."

They felt into comfortable silence afterwards, Danny concentrating on his breathing and contemplating how it was the most contact they had in the recent past. He sighed before breaking the moment.

"Now," he said, "on more practical matters. I'll have to stay here for some time, but don't worry, I've made arrangements. I've told doctors to contact Allan about the situation, and he agreed to take you in while I recover."

Taylor's smile froze on her face.

"Allan?" she said in a flat tone.

Danny frowned.

"Yeah?" he said. "You know, Emma's father. I know you don't hang out with her lately, but I thought you may want to see her now, given the situation..." His voice trailed off as Taylor remained silent, her expression failing to change.

Then, without warning, she started to laugh.

"Taylor?" he said unsurely.

She didn't stop laughing, a broken, mocking sound that seemed to come from her throat almost involuntary as her hands clutched her chest.

"What... What's wrong?" he asked, watching his daughter with mounting horror.

The laughter continued. Taylor's face was already red from tears, but now it took on an unhealthy bluish hue, as if she were suffocating. Her whole body was convulsing in rhythm with the bouts of crazy laughter, and she showed no inclination to stop.

"Taylor!" Danny snapped eventually and flinched as Taylor suddenly fell silent. "Taylor, what's..." he started in a milder tone only to stop as she stood up and walked around his bed to the window. "Taylor, what are you..."

She didn't pay him any heed as she opened the window and climbed on its frame...

"Taylor!"

...before calmly stepping outside.

Adrenalin rushed through Danny's veins giving him strength he didn't know he had. Maddeningly slowly, struggling for every movement, he heaved himself of the bed, displacing tubes and cords attached to him and causing the machinery in the room to emit high-pitched noise. Heedless of it, he crawled towards the window and with a moan full of pain managed to lift himself with his free hand up the frame to look outside.

Only to see Taylor walking away from the clinic among gawking bystanders.

Completely unharmed.

* * *

AN: Brockton Bay reimagined as a part of UA setting. Though about calling it simply You Did It, but it would probably have been too on-the-nose. May or may not be continued. I do have an idea for at least another snippet.


	29. Slippery Spiral

.

**Slippery Spiral**

"Sh-" Jack glanced at Riley running alongside him. "Sugar, sugar, sugar," he continued.

They finally reached their destination and Jack turned to face Riley, placing one hand on her shoulder and keeping the other carefully away from her.

"Alright, alright," he said catching his breath. "Everything's under control. Your mother's still alive, she's the last one in need of help and I have her liver right here. Just do your thing, fix her up, and we can put this entire mess behind us, okay?"

"Ah... huh," Riley said.

Jack sighed before bowing down to put himself on the same eye level as Riley.

"Look," he said, "I know it was not a good day for either of us, but it's almost over. Just one more thing and we can go our separate ways. Just do it for your mother, alright? And then I'll..." Jack desperately grasped for something little girls may find appealing. "I'll buy you a pony?" He looked closely at Riley's face and saw vacant expression and empty eyes. "A therapist pony," he amended.

"Okay," Riley said before taking the liver from Jack's hand and turning to face her mother.

"Good girl," Jack said, absently patting her on her head.

It was at that moment that he heard a loud crushing noise followed by familiar screams of Riley's family.

"Oh my God, what is it now?!" He swirled in place to face the door.

"I think Chuckles forgot how his limbs work again," Siberian said.

* * *

"Are you sure this is the right thing to do?" Bonesaw said, once more checking the settings of cryo-camera.

Jack smiled at her sadly. "You've heard them same as I, didn't you? I'm apparently destined to destroy the world. And with our track record? _I believe them._" He sighed. "I wish things could be different, but, you know... Something must be done to put an end to it, and I think our latest project will do the trick. Pocket dimension, putting us all to ice. No way anything could go wrong now." He frowned. "I mean, it's not the _only_ way to get the job done, but, honestly, I'm too scared for another way. So, long sleep it is for me."

"Am I not a part of all of this by now?" Bonesaw asked sullenly.

Jack sighed and patted her on her shoulder.

"I'm really sorry for dragging you into this mess back then," he said. "And yeah, you're a part of our crew by now, no question about it. But I really do believe you can do better. Make yourself look different, craft a normal life, make a lot of friends and no enemies. Be happy. Can you do it for me?"

"Okay, Uncle Jack," Bonesaw said hiding her eyes behind her hair. "I will."

"Good." Jack smiled. "Now, I'd also ask you to check on us from time to time, make sure everything's in working order. Not that I would blame you if you didn't..."

"No, no. I will."

Jack nodded and without saying anything more climbed into the camera. Bonesaw watched him for a long moment before turning to the control panel.

"Goodby, Riley," he said as he felt cold overtaking him.

"Goodby, Uncle Jack," he thought he heard.

He fell into a deep sleep...

...Only to awake after what seemed a moment to him to a sight of dozens of copies of previous Slaughterhouse members mingling around the place and Riley standing before his camera with distraught expression on her face.

"Uncle Jack!" she cried. "I don't know how that happened!"

"F-fudge it all!"

* * *

"...And you know what happened next? Shatterbird _sneezed!_ She was known as Songbird before then, you know?"

For the first time since arriving to this world... no, for the first time in his entire life Zion smiled. What happened to the host of the broadcast shard was so much worse than what happened to him, who only lost one person he loved. But Zion didn't care about him or people around him, and the twists and turns of their path were so unexpected, betrayed his expectations so much that instead of serving as a depressing reminder of his own fate, they provided a cathartic narrative in which he could lose himself, if only for a moment.

Zion frowned. Except now he did think about his partner and the sadness was back. He supposed nothing could last forever, a lesson his species have learned long ago.

Still, there was something in the host's story, something that promised more than saving kittens and putting out fires.

Zion fell deep in thought. Perhaps he should try to orchestrate situations similar to what he just heard? What did they have in common? Ah yes, the betrayal of expectations. You thought one thing would happen and then something completely different happened instead. Irony, he was pretty sure the phenomenon was called.

So... Land was supposed to be above water. So, putting it underwater would be ironic. Yes, ironic and funny. He should try it with that "Britain" landmass.

With renewed sense of purpose, Zion easily broke the time bubble surrounding him and went off to play the first of his practical jokes.

Far below him, trapped in another time bubble, Jack sighed as he felt the presence on the edge of his senses disappearing.

"I suppose even the greatest hero has only so much patience for sob stories." He winced as the wound in his stomach reopened once more. "I guess this is the end of the line for me. Not the best end, but I'm glad it's finally over." He spent the next two loops screaming profanities he didn't dare utter for the last few years. "And hey!" He smiled, and the smile was almost genuine. "I didn't destroy the world! In my situation, that's honestly something I can be proud of."


	30. Perspective

.

**Perspective**

"I don't ask you two to be friends," Miss Militia said, "but please consider the situation from our perspective. Despite her flaws, we're still responsible for Miss Hess, and-"

"And what?" Taylor spat. "She should just go scot-free after what she's done to me?"

"No. She would face a disciplinary action. However, consider: _I was used as a living mine detector._"

"Huh?"

"Your argument is invalid."

"But-"

"_Living mine detector._"

Taylor fell silent.

"Now, I believe Director Piggot wished to speak to you. Please remind her that _I was used as a living mine detector_ and so deserve a raise."

* * *

AN: A drabble of exactly 100 words. An answer to all those super-sympathetic Miss Militias plaguing certain fics. Just to clarify, this is a comedic exaggeration. I do think Miss Militia would be sympathetic to Taylor's situation, just not to the point of throwing Sophia under the bus. However, it is important to remember that one of the few major characterization moments we have for her is her talking about not really getting problems that concern her colleagues and thinking them silly after surviving hell on Earth. As such, she is unlikely to be shaken by Taylor's story and would approach the situation solely with a professional perspective.


End file.
